


Wanting Charlie

by AngiePen



Series: Loving Charlie [1]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Charlie Whump, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Ian Rawr, Kidnapping, M/M, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngiePen/pseuds/AngiePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At another fundraiser, where Millie had Charlie togged out like a performing monkey in his tux, he meets a pleasant young woman. Then he meets her again. He needs to make nice with a potential donor, so he smiles and meets her for dinner, talking math and looking forward to seeing Ian that weekend.</p><p>Ian has managed to get a weekend free and is looking forward to spending it with Charlie. But then Charlie stops answering his phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Charlie**

Charlie really hated fundraisers. Despite Millie's insistence that he looked like James Bond when he wore a tux, he felt like a performing monkey, and one who'd forgotten its act. Or actually, one who'd never been taught what to do. He was a monkey in a tux who was expected to ad lib and get raves and applause every time.

The fact that he _did_ get raves -- or at least, positive reviews -- most of the time just made it worse, because it meant Millie would be there to hustle him back into the room and steer him toward the big donors again next time. If he were genuinely bad at it, she'd leave him alone.

She never dressed Larry up in a tux. That was something to think about.

He'd just escaped from a group of state legislators and was looking around for Millie, fully planning to head in the opposite direction when he saw her, when he collided with someone. A light yelp told him the someone was female and he spun around, arms outstretched to catch her in case he'd actually knocked her off balance.

Luckily, he hadn't. Well, that was one thing gone sort of right that evening.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Are you all right?" She didn't seem to be about to fall, so he straightened and tried to figure out what to do with his hands. When he spun around he'd ended up with one really near her breast, and that was sort of embarassing. His hands ended up in his pockets.

The woman was a few years older than he was, Don's age or a bit older. She was wearing a glittery pink cocktail type dress, with about eight inches of cleavage, and an amazing amount of yellow-blonde hair piled on her head in loops and curls and braids. It was an interesting engineering problem, actually, and he found himself staring at it, wondering how many hairpins she'd used and exactly where she'd put them.

"Oh, no, I'm fine! That's all right, no harm done." The woman patted her hair with one hand and lightly smoothed the other down her glittery pink breasts, which were (just) covered in their own feat of cantilevered engineering. Her hair, though, the main structure seemed to be a double helix, if you squinted, with more curls filling out the--

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," said the woman with an apologetic smile. "I think one of the men by the door has had too much to drink, and I was looking around to make sure he wasn't following me."

"Oh?" Charlie's attention went back to her face, then over her shoulder toward the various clusters of people standing by the main entrance to the room. "Was someone being rude?" If one of the men attending was drunk and obnoxious, he should be escorted out. They didn't have actual security at the party, but maybe the servers would know how to handle something like that? If not, he'd dump it on Millie. And in the mean time, he could stay with the woman and make sure no one hassled her.

"Nothing horrible," said the woman, "but you know, some leering, a shoulder pat, an accidental turn so his arm brushed me." She waved a hand in the direction of her breasts again. "He was getting kind of creepy, so I told him I needed to find the lady's room. Hopefully he'll take the hint, but sometimes they don't."

"Ah." All right, that probably wouldn't require an escort out, unless the guy came chasing after her. Surely any guy who'd been ditched for the lady's room would get the hint?

"I'm Marilyn, by the way." She gave him a bigger smile and held out her hand.

He took it in a light clasp and said, "Charlie. That is, Professor Charles Eppes. I'm with the math department."

"Oh, of course! I've heard of you -- the Eppes Conversion." She gave him a playful look and added, "I'm surprised you're not schmoozing the potential donors. Playing hooky?"

Charlie laughed. "Sort of. I just finished with one group, and my boss hasn't aimed me at anyone else yet."

She cocked her head and gave him a knowing look. "So you were trying to duck away from unwanted attention too."

He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it, thought, nodded. "In a way. I know this is all necessary -- I like being paid as well as the next person, and research funds are always short. But I really don't enjoy putting on a show for the donors. It should be about how valuable our work is, not how much we suck up to someone with money. Or even about how entertaining or, or charming we can be. A lot of brilliant academics aren't very charming, but that doesn't mean their work isn't valuable."

She nodded. "A lot of really brilliant people struggle with people skills. Some of the people I went to school with were painfully awkward. The ones who didn't know it were particularly unpleasant to be around."

Charlie gave a helpless shrug. He had to agree with that. The only reason he wasn't one of them himself was his family, he was pretty sure. Even Penfield, much as Charlie might hate him personally, was a gifted mathematician and shouldn't be denied funding just because he was an arrogant ass.

Marilyn studied him for a moment, then said, "Well, I thank you for not knocking me down, and for some pleasant conversation. Maybe we'll see each other again some time." She held out her hand and Charlie clasped it again. She gave him a last smile, then turned and took her glittery pink curves away into the crowd.

Just as he was thinking how odd that whole encounter had been, he spotted Millie making a bee-line for him. He grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and gulped half of it before she got to him.

Onward, once more into the breach.

***

Millie knew all his tricks after half a dozen fund-raiser receptions, and managed to stick by him well enough to prevent his ducking out completely before the bitter end. They said goodbye to the last of the guests, the head statistician for a large insurance firm and her husband, while waiters gathered glasses and mopped up spills in the room behind them.

Charlie heaved a sigh of relief and yanked at his bow tie. Millie smirked at him and batted his hand away, undoing it with a single yank. "Wouldn't want my personal double-oh to strangle," she said.

"God forbid you have to find a new performing monkey for next time."

"I have several potential performing monkeys," she said. "You're the best, though, and I always choose the best whenever possible."

"Eek eek," said Charlie.

"There you go! Already practicing for next time!" Millie beamed at him. "Go get some sleep -- you earned it. And if you call him, say hi to your boyfriend for me." She shooed him toward the door, and he took the opportunity to duck out before she thought of anything else.

He walked to his car, slowly, enjoying the cool night air after the hot, close atmosphere of the party.

Millie had originally tried to stick him with escort duties. Not all the time, but whenever there was a wealthy woman, or sometimes the daughter of a wealthy parent who might appreciate a brilliant young escort who, in Millie's words, defined "adorably geeky," Charlie had found himself with a woman on his arm. Sometimes they'd been of appropriate age, and sometimes not. Actually, the fourteen-year-old daughter of a widowed Senator had been fun to hang out with, just excited enough at the party -- and Charlie's attention -- for some of it to rub off, but just familiar enough with the whole party thing not to make any embarassing gaffes. She was actually better at that part of it than Charlie was, and had prompted him through a couple of awkward bits of conversation.

In return he'd explained how proofs worked, talking her through an opposite-angles proof with a pen and a cocktail napkin. He was pretty sure he'd just done a chunk of her geometry homework for her -- she'd been careful to tuck the napkin into her purse -- but she did seem to get what he was saying about the general technique, so maybe it'd actually helped.

He wouldn't mind seeing Carrie at CalSci in four more years, although he had a feeling she wouldn't be majoring in math.

One of his other escorts wasn't as much fun, though. After flirting with him pretty heavily all evening, and drinking just as heavily, she'd cornered him on a balcony and gotten her hand into his waistband and heading south.

Charlie'd pulled away a bit more roughly than he'd usually be with a woman and stalked off, leaving her leaning against the balcony railing, gaping at his retreating back. He heard a few curses before the door shut behind him, but didn't give a damn whether he'd just blown a big donation or not.

He'd found Millie and told her that being sexually assaulted was _not_ in his job description, and that she no longer had his permission to pimp him out. Before Millie could do more than gape at him, he'd added an exception for Carrie -- if her father ever brought her to another reception, he'd be happy to hang out with her for the evening.

Millie'd seemed to think that being groped by an admittedly pretty woman wasn't really much of a hardship. Charlie'd ignored all the things that were wrong with that idea and thrown out what he considered a deal-breaker, the fact that he was in a relationship and had no intention of cheating on his boyfriend just to clinch a deal for the university.

That she'd understood, and had no problem unpacking. She'd understood when he added that he wasn't out, and would appreciate her discretion. She'd been reasonable about it ever since, even steering him away from a few people -- male and female both -- whom she'd heard collected notches on their bedposts, which Charlie appreciated very much.

Charlie got into his car and headed home. It was Saturday night, or actually Sunday morning, after one, and he had the next day free. He was eager to get home, and even LA traffic thinned out slightly after midnight. Twenty minutes later he made it home and trotted upstairs to his room.

It was quarter till two, but he pulled out his phone and hit speed dial one.

"Hey, Professor."

"Agent Edgerton."

Charlie relaxed onto his bed, the warmth in the voice on the phone wrapping him up and drawing out a smile. They'd been together for just over two years, but still teased each other over the phone.

"How'd your shindig go?"

"The usual."

"That bad, huh? Maybe next time Don'll call with a nice kidnapping or something."

"I'd never wish for it, but I'll admit it would've been welcome."

"If I'm in the area, I'll get a ski mask and come rescue you."

Charlie laughed. "That'd be fun. Except someone'd call Don and he'd end up hot on our trail. I'd like to think we have better things to do than running and hiding."

"Very true. I'll have to think of something else."

"You do that." Charlie said. "I'll let you get back to sleep. I just wanted to say hi."

"Any time, Professor." Charlie heard the affection in Ian's voice, and wished he was next to him in bed and not somewhere in Illinois.

"Any idea when you'll have some down time?"

"I might be able to head your way toward the end of the week," Ian said. "Depends how some things go. I've got over a hundred days of vacation piled up, though, and the bean counters are squawking."

Charlie laughed. "I'll bet. Paid vacation time saved is like a bank account. Every time you get a raise, all those hours you earned earlier accumulate interest to bring them up to your new rate. It's like your raise becomes retroactive for that many hours, so--"

"I'll take your word for it," said Ian. "The shrinks are throwing their vote behind the accountants, so unless something major comes up, I should be out your way by Friday or Saturday."

"That'd be great! Does that mean you'll be able to stay a while?"

"Most likely."

"Unless something major comes up, I know. But we can hope."

"Yeah, Charlie, we can hope. And I'll dream about you until then."

"Me too." Charlie swallowed hard. "G'night Ian. Love you."

"Love you back, Professor." They waited a moment, then Charlie heard the line go dead.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Charlie hit his favorite coffee place on the way in to school, and there was Marilyn digging change out of a little old-fashioned coin purse. The counter was perpendicular to the entrance and when he came in she must've caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. She glanced up, then did a classic double-take and dropped her purse.

Change fell to the floor in a shower of metallic tinkling, and coins rolled everywhere in a series of curves that reminded Charlie of tracks he'd seen in a cloud chamber one time when he'd been helping Larry study how air pressure affected cosmic rays.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Marilyn squatted down and started grabbing at coins that'd landed more or less flat and stayed near her. Her lowered elevation put his gaze right down into her cleavage, cupped by a clingy, low-cut purple sweater. Charlie grinned and looked away, dashing off after the coins that'd rolled off across the linoleum. By the time they'd gathered everything up and Marilyn had gone through them to pick out what she needed to pay for the coffee and muffin sitting on the counter, the barista already had Charlie's order up.

"Here you go, Professor," she said with a rueful look. She handed Charlie his cup while accepting a palmful of change from Marilyn. "Thank you, ma'am," she said, counting the coins into the register drawer.

Charlie paid for his own coffee while brushing off Marilyn's apologies and greetings, and especially her offer to pay for his coffee in exchange for his coin retrieval help. If she had to count out another coffee's worth of nickels and dimes, he was pretty sure the barista's head would explode.

They ended up settling down at a table near the window. Charlie glanced at his watch and saw that he had time, so he said, "Hey, nice to see you again. Do you live around here?"

"No," she said, arranging her coffee and her muffin on a spread-out napkin. "I came to town for the reception and decided to spend some time. I've never been to southern California before and figured I couldn't come without seeing Disneyland and Hollywood and all that. I got a hotel up the street a ways, and they recommended this coffee shop." She grinned at him. "They obviously have good taste if you come here too."

"It's one of my favorite places for coffee," Charlie said with a nod. "They roast in small batches so it's always fresh, not like that pre-ground stuff you get at the grocery store."

"Perfect," said Marilyn. She blew on her coffee for a few seconds, then took a cautious sip. "Oh, yes, this is wonderful."

Charlie toasted her with his own cup, then took a sip of his own. There, he thought. Now it's really morning.

He realized he had no idea what she did, so he asked.

"Oh, different things," she said with a dismissive wave of one hand. "What you do is much more interesting."

She didn't seem to be with anyone, and hadn't seemed to have an escort at the reception, so she'd probably been there as a donor herself.

Most people loved to talk about themselves and what they did for a living. Charlie had only run into a few people at the fundraising events who didn't want to babble about their occupation, and they'd all been ridiculously rich people whose occupation was managing the family foundation or something like that, travelling around looking for good causes to write checks to. He figured Marilyn was probably one of those, and was glad he'd helped her out that night.

"I can talk about math all day," he said, not wanting to push if she didn't want to talk. "But most people would rather not listen to me unless they're in one of my classes." Or are FBI working a case with me, he thought, but that probably wasn't something to bring up.

"I'll admit I didn't get past calculus in school," she said with a smile and a shrug. "I don't suppose I'd understand anything about what you're working on?"

Charlie launched into a simplified explanation of his work on emergent consciousness. He had some practice explaining it to his dad and Don and Megan, so he got the basic idea across to Marilyn. At least, she was nodding by the time he wound down, at about the same time they were both finishing their coffees.

Finally she said, "It sounds like you're working toward artificial intelligence."

"This could be a step in that direction," he said with a happy nod. The fact that she'd made that leap herself meant she'd actually been listening and understood what he said, rather than just humoring him. He worried about that sometimes, that people who weren't into math just listened to him to be polite, even when they were bored or annoyed.

"I'd love to talk to you about it again some time," she said. "Imagine what we could do with a true AI? It could revolutionize the world."

"It could," said Charlie. "I don't know that we'll be there any time soon, but each step is progress."

"It certainly is," she said, beaming at him. "Let's have dinner. We can talk about it more then."

Dinner? Charlie didn't have any plans, but wasn't sure he wanted to go out for dinner with a woman he'd really only known for half an hour, or at least, he'd only spent about half an hour in her company. On the other hand, if she was a potential big donor who wanted to listen to him talk about the marvelous potential of his latest research project, he didn't want to brush her off, either. Aside from the fact that funding for his pet project would be great, Millie would kill him if he offended a donor.

He put on a smile and said, "Sure, that's fine. I have a seminar this afternoon until five, but I'm free after, say, five-thirty."

"Let's say six-thirty," she said. "You pick a place? Nothing too fancy."

Charlie wasn't sure what "not too fancy" meant to someone who was fabulously wealthy, but he gave her directions to a favorite Italian place, figuring everyone liked Italian.

"That sounds wonderful," she said. "I'll see you, then -- six-thirty." She gathered up her trash and stood, holding out her free hand.

Charlie stood as well, shook her hand and dumped his own trash on the way out, holding the door for her. She brushed by him in the narrow doorway, then smiled at him over her shoulder before strolling off up the sidewalk with a gentle sway that showed off the curves in her clingy skirt.

She was a pretty woman. If he weren't taken, he might've been interested in being her vacation fling.

He grinned to himself and headed for his car, figuring he had just enough time to get to campus and jog from the faculty lot to his game theory class.

Just as he pulled into traffic, though, he wondered why someone who had money would've been counting out nickels and dimes for coffee and a muffin. He'd have expected her to put it on a card, especially if she could count it as a travel expense. Pumping a professor for info was deductible if you were trying to figure out how big a check to write his university, or at least he thought it was.

Rich people were kind of eccentric, though, or at least some of them were. He'd always heard that. Maybe she just had a thing about change? Or maybe the coin purse was a fashion statement, and using a coin purse meant coins? Charlie had never paid a lot of attention to fashion at that level.

It might be an interesting study, though, if you could quantify how much additional inconvenience people were willing to take on in order to appear to be in fashion. Huh. Fashion granted social status within your peer or professional group, so in a way it was an investment....

Expressions flickered through his mind, shifting and changing and arranging themselves into equations as he drove toward campus.

***

Charlie dashed out to his car as soon as the seminar was over with. Since he wasn't due at Nonna Romagna's for an hour, he had time to go home and at least change his shirt. He was wearing a T-shirt with a diagram of a caffeine molecule on it -- appropriate for school, but not quite what he wanted to wear to dinner with a potential donor. Marilyn had said casual, sure, but no sense pushing it.

He pulled up to the house and saw Don's car out front. Charlie trotted in, called, "Don, hi, gotta change and run!" and was half way up the stairs before he heard Don's garbled reply.

Don poked his head in the door a minute later, a sandwich in his hand. "Hey, Chuck, where's the fire?"

Charlie rummaged through his closet, looking for a basic, button-down shirt. He had plenty of them, but most of them were dirty or wrinkled or both. Time to do laundry, or it would be if he had more than five minutes to change.

"No fire," he said without looking back at Don. "I'm having dinner out and need a decent shirt." He pulled a grey and blue striped shirt out of a pile -- clean, not too wrinkled, perfect. It'd even go with the grey trousers he'd been wearing. He pulled his T-shirt off, thrust his arms into the grey and blue and started doing up the buttons.

"You and Amita finally getting back together?" asked Don.

"No, Don," Charlie said with a scowl. "I told you, she's with Pat Chaney now. He's brilliant, stable, he doesn't dash off to work at all hours on ten seconds' notice, and he's never been shot at."

"Aw, come on, Charlie, she was really into you. If you'd just work at it a little harder, I bet you could get her back."

Charlie finished with his buttons and started working a comb through his tangled mop. "No, I probably couldn't, even if I wanted to. We're good friends, we still work together sometimes, but she's happier with Pat, and I got over it a long time ago. I wish you'd get over it too."

Don sighed. "Well, I guess you _have_ gotten over it if you're going out with someone else. Who is it? Another professor? Is she hot?"

"Yes, I guess she's hot. No, she's not another professor. And we're not really going-out going out, we're just having dinner so I can tell her about my work. She's a big donor, or potential donor, something like that. I met her at Millie's last reception on Saturday."

"Hey, if she wanted to write the university a check, she could do that without listening to you go on about math for another evening. I bet she's into you."

Charlie could hear the teasing grin in Don's voice, and worked hard on not sighing. He was pretty sure Don wouldn't have much problem with Charlie being bisexual, once he got over being all startled right at the beginning. He was also pretty sure the fact that Charlie was with Ian Edgerton -- incredibly dangerous and constantly travelling around Ian Edgerton -- would be a lot harder for him to deal with. And he didn't even want to _think_ about his dad's reaction to the news that Charlie was in love with a guy who shot people for a living.

Not that Charlie was really thrilled about that part of Ian's life, but Ian was good at it -- one of the best in the country -- and it was something that needed doing sometimes. Charlie himself would probably be dead if Ian weren't such a crack shot and hadn't been in the right place at the right time, during the serial sniper case. That was when they'd met, arguing and snarking -- at least, Charlie had argued and snarked some, Ian had pretty much maintained, like a retriever staying all mellow while a chihuahua was barking all around its legs.

Then Charlie had gone downtown to collect data and next thing he knew there were bullets whizzing past his head and David was throwing him down onto the cement and then _another_ gun shot, and it was all over. Ian did what he did and saved Charlie's life.

Charlie was grateful, of course. But at the time he'd still sort of wondered what kind of guy Ian was. After all, whether or not he saved Charlie's life, he was still a guy who shot people for a living. He seemed nice, and it was pretty clear he was one of the good guys, at least right then. But Charlie couldn't wrap his head around it, being able to do that over and over, even if you were sure the people you were shooting were always bad guys. It seemed like you'd have to be... sort of _into_ it, to be able to do that for a living, for however many years. And Charlie was kind of creeped out by that.

What if Ian really _was_ into it? Didn't that mean he might snap some day? Or even if he didn't, there had to be times when shooting someone or not was a split-second decision, based on a lot of different factors that'd be tough to weigh properly in your mind. Wouldn't someone who was into shooting people come down on the side of, well, shooting people, most of the time? Even if it was only edge cases, that'd still be a lot of people with bullet holes in them.

And what if what he was into wasn't just shooting people, but killing them? Was he good enough to make that choice when it might be appropriate? Could he, to use some of his own words, go hunting for a wing, instead of shooting for white meat all the time? At the distances he shot, who was to say whether he was shooting for a shoulder or a heart? Could anyone pin that on him, prove that a fatal shot was deliberate?

Would it even be deliberate? Charlie didn't know. Could you be that accurate, over a number of shots, at those distances? Especially if the target wasn't holding conveniently still?

He'd wondered about all that stuff for months, until they ran into Ian again, while hunting through the hills for McHugh. In a situation where McHugh was deliberately set up to look dangerous, to look like a hot-headed murderer who needed to be shot on sight, Ian had listened to the evidence and held off on shooting the guy, when he could've exercised his own judgement and killed him, likely with no significant consequences. So obviously he didn't just get off on shooting people.

That'd been a relief. And it also brought Ian Edgerton into the set of People It's Safe To Get To Know. Which had let Charlie relax around the guy, and actually notice that he was pretty hot.

He wasn't sure he could explain that to his dad yet, though. And he wasn't sure Don would even care. Don seemed to like Ian, but that was different from being okay with Ian banging his baby brother.

Charlie wasn't sure Don would be okay with _anyone_ banging his baby brother, but Ian came with a bunch of built-in points of contention, at least so far as Charlie was able to model the likely decision chain of an older brother who'd made it clear over many years -- even when they were kids and didn't exactly get along -- that he could be vicious in protecting said baby brother.

So Charlie just gave Don a shrug and said, "Maybe she is, I don't know. I'm not really into her, though, so it's kind of irrelevant."

"What do you mean you're not into her? You said she was hot, right? Is she, you know, weird or something?"

"No, not really. There just wasn't any chemistry. I mean, that kind of chemistry, you know? She seemed perfectly nice."

Don grinned again. "Well, you know, that's what dating's for. You get to know her, and the chemistry might happen later. If she's hot and she's nice, what more can you ask for? At the beginning, anyway. That's a great place to start. You're taking her out, so pay attention, turn on the charm, and keep your mind open. Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Don! It's just dinner. She wants me to talk about my work. That doesn't sound like a woman who wants a... a breakfast companion!"

That got a full-on laugh out of Don. "Seriously, Chuck, when was the last time you got laid? I think your pipes are clogging up and it's choking off blood to your brain."

"It hasn't been _that_ long," Charlie muttered.

"Liar," said Don, still grinning.

"A couple months isn't all that long," Charlie snapped. He regretted it immediately, but he kept a straight face and told himself it wasn't anywhere near enough data for Don to guess whom he'd been with. He and Don might spend a lot of work time together, and Don might come to the house to eat three or four times a week, but they didn't spend _all_ their time together. He had plausible deniability.

"Two months? Seriously? With anyone else I'd be making fun of them going that long, but for you it's not bad."

Charlie scowled and stuck his comb back into his pocket. He grabbed a dark grey jacket out of his closet and pushed past Don, who was still lounging in the doorway and hadn't come within a lightyear of making the right connection. Charlie should've known. "Later," he said, and trotted down the stairs.

"Night," Don called. "Don't rush home."

Brothers could be serious pains sometimes.


	3. Chapter 3

An hour later, Charlie was considering dropping a hint about being gay. Just a small one. Or all right, maybe a big one. Or maybe a small one with a lot of mass, like a pool ball instead of a styrofoam ball?

Nonna Romagna's smelled like sausage and tomatoes and fennel, like a good Italian restaurant should. There were no checked tablecloths, but the dark, laquered wood of the tabletops looked rustic, nicked and dented but well polished and cared for. The lights were bright enough to see what you were eating without feeling institutional, and the place was cozy -- with a lot of booths and partitions -- without being cramped. On a Wednesday evening, it wasn't too crowded, but it wasn't empty either. That was good; empty restaurants gave Charlie the creeps, like maybe everyone else knew something about the place that he didn't.

Actually, he'd learned during one of Don's cases exactly how many health inspectors LA County had working restaurants, and how many restaurants there were in the county. Sixth grade level math said that a restaurant could go pretty far downhill before its odds of being inspected and shut down reached even fifty percent. Since then, Charlie'd mostly gone to restaurants he knew and liked, or places that were recommended by people whose good sense he trusted.

Marilyn had changed into a tight pink top that was so thin he could see the lace pattern of her bra through it. It wasn't transparent, but the fabric -- silk maybe? -- clung to the uneven texture of the lace enough for it to be, well, basically visible. It wasn't low cut, but he remembered her impressive cleavage from the other night, and earlier that day.

She'd been smiling at him a lot, that sort of coy, kind of teasing smile women used sometimes when they were flirting. And she had a way of hunching her shoulders that emphasized her breasts.

They were great breasts, Charlie couldn't deny it. But at that moment he was firmly attached to a set of solid pecs, and a pair of awesome shoulders, and a tight, muscular ass. To say nothing of the man who came with all the great parts, because that was really the focus of it all. Ian let Charlie relax in a way no one else did. He made Charlie feel like he was enough, that he didn't have to prove anything, didn't have to constantly worry that he might Make A Mistake with something and all his value would drain out of him. Because if he wasn't Charlie Eppes, Kid Genius, then what was he? He couldn't think of anything, really. But when he was with Ian, it didn't seem to matter. Just being Charlie was okay.

Marilyn was nice, but he definitely got the impression that she was impressed with Charlie Eppes, Kid Genius. Or at least, Professor Eppes, Certified Genius, because she might not actually know that he went to Princeton at thirteen.

He'd told her about the Eppes Convergence, generally, without any serious math, but hadn't mentioned how old he'd been when he published it. He'd talked about some of his game theory work, and then as their entrees arrived -- sausage and prosciutto tortelloni for him, squab cannelloni for her -- she asked him about how much farther along the path to AI his emergent consciousness work would take them, so he'd been talking about that for a few minutes.

She asked some intelligent questions -- despite having stopped at calculus, she wasn't a stupid woman, or ignorant -- but through the whole conversation she watched _him_ in a way that didn't suggest a focus on the subject under discussion. By the time he finished his tortelloni, Charlie was feeling actively uncomfortable.

Over dessert, Marilyn said, "I'm sure you've been told all your life how brilliant you are." She was holding her coffee cup in both hands and smiling at Charlie over the top of it. "But it's true. And not only are you brilliant, but you have a gift for explaining things to people who aren't experts in your field. I'm sure that's what makes you such a popular teacher."

"Well, thanks," said Charlie, looking down to poke at his cannoli with his fork. "I try. I have a lot of practice coming up with ways to explain math to non-mathematicians. I suppose it's like everything else, and practice imparts expertise."

"I've known dozens of teachers who have decades more practice than you, who aren't half as good." Marilyn had a wry smile on her face, and Charlie had to laugh.

"All right, I have too. I think everyone's sat through some lectures that should be sanctioned under the Geneva Convention. But a lot of instructors are great at research, or write important papers and books, but aren't good standing at the front of a classroom. A lot of us nerds are kind of socially awkward, you know?"

"You're also incredibly nice," she said. "I'd be more likely to forgive... well, a few people I can think of, if there'd been any evidence at all that they were _trying_ to do a good job as teachers."

Charlie shrugged. "Any large group of people contains a wide range of personalities."

"I usually think of it as Sturgeon's Law as applied to people," she said with a smirk.

Charlie was pretty sure he was meant to laugh, but he actually found it kind of startling, and not in a good way. "Ninety percent seems high," he murmured, poking at his cannoli again. "My experience is that most people are pretty decent if you give them a chance."

He got a sincere looking smile at that. "You just think that because you're such a nice guy yourself. I mean it. You're like the epitome of nice guys, and part of being incredibly nice is thinking everyone else is too until they prove incontrovertibly that they're not." She put her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, and tilted her head at him. "All that, plus brains, plus cute. Why aren't you married with a dozen children?"

That got a laugh out of him. "A dozen? Really? I'm thinking maybe a couple, some day. I'm not ready to be a dad yet, though."

"You should think about spreading your genes," she said. Her expression was suddenly dead serious. "Humanity needs more geniuses like you, and that need will grow in the future as problems get bigger and harder to solve."

Charlie stared at her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "Thank you, I suppose. But I don't even know that my kind of intelligence, whatever made me a child genius, is even inheritable. My parents were intelligent people, but not geniuses. Same with my brother. My grandparents too, so far as I know. It was probably some kind of a fluke, a combination of just the right genes along with really good luck with gestational chemistry and millions of coin flips in the actual construction. Genes are the blueprint, but even ignoring the vital contribution of nurture, what happens once the body starts building a baby to the blueprints is different every time, sometimes more, sometimes less. We don't know for sure--"

"But it's worth trying, isn't it?" she said, running over him completely. "Whatever part of it is genetic must be worth preserving, if only to give other women a chance of coming up with that lucky 'build' in the future, with the right genes to take advantage of it."

All right, Charlie was officially weirded out. "Like I said, I'll probably have a couple of kids some day. That's enough for me. Posterity is going to have to get along without an army of my descendants." He tried smiling, but was pretty sure he didn't do a very good job of it.

She looked away, and seemed disappointed. "Well, you know there are special programs for certified geniuses in all different fields. You can donate sperm, and preserve your genes that way, if you don't want to raise a lot of children yourself."

"Um, that's... that's interesting. Thanks. I'll keep it in mind." Charlie pushed what was left of his cannoli aside and looked around for their waitress. He was more than ready to leave.

***

Saying goodnight to Marilyn had been awkward. More than awkward -- what was three or four orders of magnitude beyond awkward? She'd suggested going somewhere for coffee, and Charlie had a weird feeling she was trying to maneuver him into going back to her hotel with her. He lied about having a breakfast meeting with a doctoral student and escaped.

As soon as he got home, he headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He closed the door to his room, tossed his jacket onto a chair and toed off his shoes, then flopped onto his bed and called Ian.

"Hey, Professor. How's it going?"

"Ian." Just hearing his voice made Charlie relax, at least a little. "I just had the weirdest dinner ever."

"Deep fried tarantulas? I saw those on TV once." There was a teasing note in Ian's voice, and it made Charlie smile.

"No, the food was great. The person I was with, though... I met this woman named Marilyn at a fund raiser, one of Millie's receptions. She's a pretty blonde woman, and... you know, the kind of woman most guys would think was very attractive? She'd been having some trouble with a guy and did the bathroom ditch to get away from him. We ran into each other -- actually collided -- and talked for a minute or two. Then I saw her again this morning."

He told Ian how he ended up having dinner with Marilyn, then said, "And we did talk about my work, but then she started in about how I should have like a dozen kids, how I owe it to humanity to spread my genes around or something!"

He heard Ian cracking up at the other end of the phone. "I can think of worse people to leave a dozen copies of themselves in the world. Lots of worse people, actually."

"Right, fine, it's a nice thought but it doesn't really work that way. The thing is, she was serious. She wasn't just paying a compliment to someone whose work she admires enough to write a big check."

"Did she offer to have your baby?" Ian still sounded like he was way too amused by the whole thing.

"No, but I think that would've come before too long if I hadn't ducked out. She did suggest I donate sperm, though. Who says that to someone they barely know, in a restaurant?"

"Huh. Groupie, maybe?"

"I think that's a given at this point. It was just so weird, a completely unexpected turn in the conversation. I was feeling kind of uncomfortable even before the subject of my fathering my own baseball team, including the coaching staff, came up. She's admiring, and that's flattering, but her sense of boundaries is off sometimes. Have you ever met someone who just made you want to leave the room? And maybe wash your hands?"

There was silence on the phone for a moment, then Ian said, "Yeah, I have." He didn't sound amused anymore. "Does she know where you live?"

"What? No. I mean, I don't think so. It probably wouldn't be that hard to find out, but I didn't bring her to the house."

"Be careful for a while," said Ian. "Being a fan is one thing, but if she's creeping you out, and getting way too personal way too fast, she could escalate."

"I think I could defend myself if she tried to molest me," said Charlie. It was his turn to be amused, and he found himself smiling up at the ceiling, imagining Ian getting all grim and serious over a pretty woman with no social skills.

"You probably could, but if you're that sure you can, you won't be looking for something coming up on your six." Charlie heard Ian sigh. "Look, it's probably nothing. Women don't do this kind of thing often. But there are exceptions. Just be careful, okay? I'll do my best to get into town on Friday."

"Hey, if it'll get you here sooner, I'll pretend I'm terrified."

Ian made a short sharp sound that could've been a light cough or an abbreviated laugh. Charlie knew which it was and grinned to himself.

"All right," said Ian, "I'll do my best. Just try not to get caught up by any grabby women before I get there."

"Promise," said Charlie. "You're the only person I want grabbing me."

Ian coughed again, then asked, "Spend the weekend at the hotel with me?"

"Sure," said Charlie. He let a few moments of silence go by, then asked, "Does that mean...? I mean, are you ready to have people know?"

More silence, then a sigh. "No, not really."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"No, you're right, it wouldn't work. So long as you're close to your family, we really can't do that without them asking questions. I hate this too, but so long as I'm in law enforcement...." He trailed off, and Charlie could imagine him glaring at something, preferably something that wouldn't be missed if he crushed it. Or shot a hole in it.

"I told you I understand, and I do." Ian wasn't military anymore. It wasn't against regs for a law enforcement officer (or agent) anywhere in the country to be gay. Such a regulation would be illegal. But the fact remained that law enforcement was one of the most testosterone-soaked environments there was, and that a gay man would have problems. Ian usually worked alone, but not always, and in a situation where he was relying on back-up, one homophobic jerk could get him killed. A _violent_ homophobic jerk might well shoot him and try to pin it on whoever they were chasing. Ian didn't want to have to deal with it, and Charlie definitely didn't want him risking himself that way.

The fact was, Charlie could tell Don to go jump off a cliff if he had to. And Ian certainly wasn't afraid of Don any any physical sense, although having Don angry would be awkward. But Ian being LEO -- especially moving around and working with different people on every case, rather than having a team and getting to know them -- meant he couldn't be out, and that was enough of a reason on its own for them to keep their relationship quiet.

Which didn't mean Charlie didn't hate it.

"How about if we go hiking?" Charlie suggested. "We've done that before. We've even stayed overnight before."

"Sure, Professor, we can do that." Ian's voice gentled, losing that thread of frustration Charlie hated.

Neither of them mentioned that it'd be nice to be able to laze around in a bed all weekend for once.

Although....

"Or, wait. What if we told everyone we were going hiking, but we went to a hotel instead?"

Ian's laugh rolled out of the phone and surrounded Charlie like a warm blanket. "You've been working for the FBI too long," Ian said. "Hanging out with all those criminals, getting into their heads -- you're learning to lie."

"I've always been able to lie!" Charlie protested. "I've never been very good at it, but I wasn't _that_ much of a goody-two-shoes."

"Sure, Professor. Whatever you say."

Charlie glared across the room, directing dire thoughts at the phone pressed to his ear. "You're right, Don would know right away I was lying. And my dad. I guess we have to stick to the original plan."

"Oh, I like that plan just fine. I'll call you when I hit town."

"I'll have my backpack ready and my hiking shoes on."

"Just your backpack and shoes?" Ian teased. "I like the sound of that."

Charlie laughed. "Unfortunately I'll have to wear one or two other things along with the backpack and shoes, or I'd get arrested before we even got to the trail. That'd ruin the whole weekend."

"Can't have that," said Ian. "I'll just have to get rid of the excess once we're somewhere more remote."

"Sounds good," said Charlie. "Then what?"

Ian described exactly what he'd do then, involving trees and rope, and the conversation slid comfortably into phone sex. It was nowhere near as good as having Ian in bed with him, but Charlie had learned to take what he could get.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ian**

They caught their fugitive early Friday morning, just as dawn was turning the sky over the city from dark grey to light grey. Ian wrapped up loose ends and caught a plane for LA by ten-thirty.

He'd talked to Charlie for about two minutes the night before, just checking in, letting Charlie ramble on about one of his math things while Ian ate a couple of protein bars, tucked up in his hide on the rooftop of an abandoned tenement, waiting for a call from the FBI agents who were tailing their fugitive's little sister.

Ian'd had a couple of years of algebra, and enough trig and practical physics to figure angles and forces, wind and gravity and velocity -- the ballistics of a bullet in flight -- but Charlie left him in the dust most of the time when he talked math. Ian didn't mind. He listened to the way Charlie's voice filled with eager delight when he described some new key to how the world worked, some pattern he'd found in what looked like random noise and shuffling to everyone else. It was like watching an artist work, painting with mathematics to capture what was unknowable to ordinary sight.

So he listened to Charlie while eating his compact dinner, then said good night and refocused.

He tried phoning again the next day, once the case wrapped, but got only voicemail. He called again from the O'Hare, and then again from LAX. He double-checked, in case Charlie had called back while he was in the air and his phone was off. Nothing.

A rental car took him to CalSci. Charlie's office was empty, although there were a couple of students milling around out in the hallway sounding vaguely panicked about something.

"Have you seen Professor Eppes?" he asked.

The girl glanced at him, then did a double-take. He had his rifle case slung over his shoulder; he hadn't checked into a hotel, and didn't want to leave it in the rental car.

"No!" she said, once she'd torn her eyes away from the case. "He's supposed to have office hours now but he hasn't shown! I've got a proof due on Monday and I need help! I'm going to totally fail!"

The guy next to her squeezed her shoulder. "He was supposed to have a letter of recommendation for me this afternoon. I haven't seen him since Stochastic Processes this morning."

Ian turned and glared at Charlie's office door. It stood open, but the room was empty. He noticed a card on the wall next to the door -- it was Charlie's schedule. Sure enough, it said he had office hours on Friday from four to five. It was four thirty-five.

The students retreated; he heard their voices moving down the hall to his left, the girl still insisting she was going to totally fail if Professor Eppes didn't explain whatever it was to her.

Despite the hour, there were still people around here and there. Ian circled the hallways, asking everyone he encountered whether they'd seen Professor Eppes that afternoon. Two had, but only in passing, one in a hallway near his office some hours earlier, and the other in a cafe buying coffee around the same time.

Ian circled the building interior one more time, then left through the exit Charlie took when he was heading to his car. He parked in the same area of the same lot every day, and Ian stalked the trail, talking to everyone he met on the way. He also kept an eye out for any signs of violence, while telling himself he was being ridiculous.

He was almost at the parking lot when he passed a bench with two students straddling it, facing each other, each with an open laptop. They had backpacks by their feet, and soda cans -- some sealed, some empty, and a couple open, plus a pile of chip bags and candy wrappers wedged in next to the foliage to one side. They'd obviously been there a while.

"Hey, you two seen Professor Eppes this afternoon?"

The two girls looked up at him. The one with her back to the parking lot shook her head, but the one facing it said, "Yeah, he took off with a woman around... what, three or so?"

"I dunno," said her friend. "I didn't see him."

"What did the woman look like?" asked Ian.

The girl who'd seen Charlie frowned up at Ian, looking him up and down. "You one of those FBI guys he works with?"

"Yeah, I am. I need to talk to him. Did you know the woman he was with?"

"Nope, never seen her before. She was blonde, pretty, pink sweater. It looked like they were going out."

Blonde woman, pretty, flirty. Shit.

"Out?"

"You know," she said, "out-out. They were walking arm-in-arm, and she was smiling at him, all flirty. New girlfriend, I guess?"

Ian made himself smile. "Maybe. Did you see which direction they went when they left?"

"No, sorry."

"Did you see what kind of car they got into? Color?"

She frowned and stared past him, her eyes going blank for a moment. "Blue car. Pretty basic type -- I'm not really into cars."

Charlie's car was blue; if they took it then Ian would bet Don had the precise make, model and plate numbers. "Thanks."

He trotted out to the parking lot, and his gut clenched when he saw that Charlie's little blue hybrid was still there.

He got back to his own car and headed downtown. LA traffic at commute time made sure it took him fifty minutes to get to the FBI building. His credentials got him into the building with his rifle, and he headed for the elevator.

Upstairs, he headed across the bullpen, scanning over the tops of the cubicles, hunting for Charlie's brother. There, the break room.

"Hey, Eppes. When was the last time you talked to Charlie?"

"Afternoon to you too, Edgerton." Don smirked at him and raised a mug of coffee in salute. "What brings you to town?"

"I have some time off. Charlie and I had plans to go hiking again, but he's not answering his phone, he's not at CalSci, and students say he missed his office hours. He was seen leaving campus with a woman. I think he's in trouble."

Don looked around and Ian saw that a couple of his team members had wandered up.

Granger said, "Hey, Ian. Uh, David and I saw him having dinner with a woman the other night. He looked like he was having a good time and, well..." he glanced up at Megan, then looked back at Ian with a grin. "She was pretty hot. He wouldn't be the first guy to blow off some work to spend time with a pretty woman."

Ian looked at Don, who shrugged. Ian wanted to brain both of them.

"Have either of you ever known _Charlie_ to blow off his students for anything less than a murderer or a hostage crisis? That's not him."

"Hey," said Don, "I know it sounds weird. I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea of my baby brother taking off for a wild afternoon with a pretty woman, but that's a brother thing." He narrowed his eyes and studied Ian's face. "I'm sure he'll apologize for missing your hike. You weren't planning on setting out this late anyway, were you?"

"No," said Ian. "We're heading out tomorrow. I was originally supposed to be here tomorrow morning, but I wrapped up early--"

"Well, there you go," said Don. "He wasn't expecting you yet."

"No, I told him I'd try to come in early, then I called and left a message when the case wrapped, this morning. I left him another one when I got to the airport, and another one when my plane landed. He hasn't returned any of them. That's not like him at all."

"Hey, Ian, he's probably..." Don glanced at Megan, who gave him a _look._ "Busy," he concluded. "I'm sure you've been there."

Ian took a step forward, into Don's space, and glared right into his startled eyes. "Charlie and I talked about this woman. Blonde? Clingy sweaters? He met her at a fund-raiser thing and was spending time with her because she's a potential big donor to the university. By the time we talked the other night, she was creeping him out pretty badly. This is _not_ someone Charlie was interested in being 'busy' with, and she was getting way too intimate, way too fast. Charlie told me enough to worry me -- that's why I came out early. He's missing, and he's not having fun. Do you want to help find him, or am I on my own with this one?"

"Hey, hey, easy. Okay, we'll check it out. Did Charlie tell you the woman's name?"

"Marilyn. He didn't mention her last name."

"Okay, I'll call CalSci and talk to Millie. She must have the guest list from the last party thing Charlie went to."

"I talked to a student who saw them leave together in a blue car. It wasn't Charlie's."

"Well, _that_ narrows it down," muttered Granger.

Before Ian could do more than clench his jaw, Sinclair came wandering up. "What does?" he asked. "Hey, Ian."

While Granger briefed Sinclair in a low voice, Don said, "I'm gonna call Millie. Let's stay cool until we know for sure that there's a problem."

He headed back to his desk, and Ian heard Granger mutter to Sinclair, "I still think Charlie's getting laid. Remember that woman he was with the other day?"

Sinclair grinned and nodded. "But I think Ian's right -- blowing off class doesn't sound like Charlie. Why wouldn't he have done his thing and met her an hour later?"

"Maybe the lady was in a rush?" Granger said. "Why would he go with her at all if he doesn't want to?" He looked up at Ian, still looking skeptical. "Did that student you talked to say she was dragging him off at gunpoint?"

"No," Ian said with a hard stare. "But you know as well as I do that Charlie's a nice guy. A pretty young woman who pretended not to be crazy could manipulate him. She's already dangled the possibility of a big donation to his school to get him to spend time with her."

"Maybe that's all she's doing now, too," said Megan. She leaned back, half sitting against a desk. "If she's starstruck by Charlie then she probably wants to spend time with him. It'd be a thrill. She might be a fan of him in particular, or maybe he's just the closest thing to a celebrity she has access to, if she's a big donor to CalSci."

"If she's a big enough donor and she was insisting, maybe skipping a class would sound reasonable? Even to Charlie's boss?" suggested Sinclair.

"Charlie wouldn't do that," Ian insisted. "And it was office hours, not class -- one-on-one time with students who need help." Didn't these people know him at all? He loved teaching, he cared about his students. He didn't even like going to the fund-raiser parties -- he definitely wouldn't blow off his students for what was basically the same thing.

"No, Ian's right," said Megan. "Charlie's nice, but he can be stubborn when he thinks something is important."

"Exactly." At least one of them was thinking straight.

Granger looked like he wanted to argue, but Don came back, looking grim. "Millie says there was no one named Marilyn on the guest list for their last shindig. Definitely none of the donors who were specifically invited. If she was somebody's plus-one, tracking her down is going to be tough."

"Charlie said she had some trouble with a guy hitting on her at the party," said Ian. "She had to brush him off and was escaping through the crowd when she ran into Charlie. Or at least, that's what she told him. But that doesn't sound like someone who came with a date. And Charlie was under the impression that she herself was a big donor."

"Which means she snuck in alone, maybe just to meet Charlie," said Don. "All right, this looks real. Unfortunately that means they're in the wind. We have only a first name and a car color. Do we even know whether she's local?" He looked at Ian, who shook his head.

"David, contact LAPD and put out a BOLO on Charlie. I've got some pictures." He tossed Sinclair his phone.

Sinclair caught the phone, said, "On it," and headed over to his desk.

"We need something better. Anyone know whether they have security cameras around CalSci? The parking lots?"

"I'll find out," said Megan, and went back to her own desk.

"Wherever their shindig was, they might have cameras there," said Ian. "Hotels usually do."

"I think they have a building on campus where they hold that stuff," said Don. He turned toward where Megan was already on the phone and called, "Megan, party room too." She waved a hand to show she'd heard.

"What else?" asked Don. "We're still talking about passive stuff. That's too slow." He was finally starting to look a little worried, which made Ian slightly less annoyed with him.

Then he thought of something. "How about Charlie's phone? Charlie's smart, he'd know we need a way to track him down. He'd leave his phone on if he could, even if he can't answer."

"Good idea. Colby, handle it."

"Sure, Boss," said Granger. He wasn't running when he headed off, but he'd do his job.

Once they were alone, Don gave Ian a curious look. "So how is it you know more about what my brother's been doing this week than I do?"

"We're friends," said Ian. "I don't have a lot of people I can call from the road. I like your brother. He's good to talk to."

"Huh. Wouldn't have thought you'd have a lot in common. You were butting heads pretty good on that first job."

Ian smirked, remembering Charlie's offended outrage at the thought of Don calling in another expert to consult on a case. "We came to appreciate each other a little more by the end. You were the one who took him shooting."

"Yeah, well, you were the one who saved his life there, you and David." Don scowled over Ian's shoulder, then looked him in the eye. "I still remember that."

"So do I," said Ian. "I wish I could've got him sooner."

"You and me both. Still, you saved my baby brother. I owe you one, and always will."

"Since I don't have a baby brother for you to save, I guess you will."

"Asshole," Don muttered, but he had a half smile on his face. "Okay, let's find him. And if we bust into a motel room and I lay eyes on my baby brother having sex, I'm gonna kick your ass."

"You can try," said Ian. "I'll even give you a five second head start before I fight back."


	5. Chapter 5

The problem was that it was just a waiting game at that point.

Ian had plenty of patience. Snipers had to be patient, waiting hours or even days for the perfect shot from a kilometer or more away. There'd been times when he'd lain through a day, a night, a day, a night, and another morning, sweating in a gillie suit, pissing right where he lay when the need came, watching through his scope for a target a kilometer and a half away to come out of cover and give him a shot.

That was active waiting, when he was in position and knew the target would give him a shot if he just watched and waited long enough.

This was passive waiting. They had no idea where the target was, or how to find her. Ian was the best tracker the FBI had, but you couldn't track a car of unknown make and model across thousands of square miles of asphalt. She could've taken Charlie to San Diego or Phoenix or backwoods Montana, or she could have him in a motel a mile from CalSci. They didn't know and had no way of finding out unless they tripped over a lead, and Ian was feeling an ever stronger need to shoot something.

Someone.

It was another hour before Reeves had security footage from the university. They watched a fuzzy figure of Charlie walk across the faculty parking lot arm-in-arm with a blonde woman. They got into a silver Honda -- apparently the student he'd talked to had mistaken the color of the car -- with Charlie on the driver side, and headed out. There was no good angle on the plate, and what they could see looked smudgy, like someone had rubbed mud or something across it.

Another file had footage from the fundraiser party. Off to one side of the picture was Charlie in a tux talking to a pretty blonde woman in a sparkly dress. It was obvious by the way she smiled and leaned into him that she was flirting. Charlie was smiling and talking and gesturing; Ian could hear Charlie's voice in his mind, enthusing about mathematical whatsits, hunting for models and metaphors.

"I don't know," said Granger, "she didn't exactly stuff him into the trunk. She wouldn't have had to stuff me in the trunk either. Are we sure Charlie didn't just decide to have a fling for once?" He looked around at the gathered group, obviously looking for agreement.

Ian wanted to smack him upside the head. Charlie's face wasn't visible in the parking lot footage -- they'd been walking away from the camera the whole time -- but Ian could tell he hadn't been happy about leaving. "He didn't walk like a guy heading out for a fun time, Granger," he said. "Look at it again, how he holds himself, his shoulders, his head. He never looks directly at the woman, even though she's looking at him almost the entire time."

"He's right." Reeves replayed the scene, looking thoughtful. She froze it and tapped Charlie on the screen. "He's going along physically but avoiding her emotionally."

"Or maybe he's just shy, maybe a little tense," argued Granger. "This is Charlie we're talking about -- he's not exactly a Casanova."

"Do you have a problem with rescuing Charlie?" Ian was right up in Granger's face and didn't remember how he got there.

"Hey, easy! Edgerton, back off." Don was there, shouldering between them, facing Ian, a hand on his shoulder. Ian took a step back, but he was still glaring past Don at Granger.

"If he needs rescuing, I'll be the first one through the door," said Granger, projecting a combination of pissed and scared. "I'm just saying, we don't really know he needs rescuing. He was happy enough chatting with this very good looking woman at the party. He had coffee with her, he had dinner with her, and now he's leaving work with her. Okay, he's ditching out on a study session or something, but how big a deal is that? If Charlie has a thing for this woman and they're rolling around together right now, he's not going to thank us if we raid her house. Hell, maybe they're at _his_ house -- has anyone checked? Just because he turned off his phone doesn't mean he's not home."

Ian looked at Don and scowled. "I'll check," he said, because standing around the office was driving him crazy, and listening to Granger was driving him homicidal. "I'll call when I get there, either way."

Getting outside was a relief, if only a slight one. Ian made better time to the house than he had to the FBI office; traffic was never _good_ in LA, but there were times when it was slightly less bad, and he'd been cooped up in the office long enough that it wasn't commute time anymore.

He pulled up in front of Charlie's Craftsman. There were no cars in the driveway or in front; his dad must not be home either.

The lack of a silver Honda meant Charlie probably wasn't there, but a kidnapper with any brains would've hidden the car. He'd been in Charlie's garage often enough to know there was no room for a car in there, but if that Marilyn woman had enough on Charlie to get him to walk out of his office and get into her car, then she could've parked a couple of blocks away and gotten him to walk into his house with her.

Ian tried the front door, carefully, then the back. Neither one was unlocked and Ian didn't want to alert anyone by knocking or ringing the bell, so he used his key to get in. He'd never used it before, and couldn't let anyone but Charlie know he had one without having to answer awkward questions. Charlie'd slipped it into his hand as they were saying goodbye the fourth time they'd been together, and told him to keep it for emergencies. It was a sentimental gesture more than anything else, and they both knew it.

Ian figured they had enough of an emergency and slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He prowled around the house, his rifle still in its case slung over his back; inside a residence, a pistol was a better choice, and he had one of those too.

He searched the first floor, taking in the homey scatter of furniture and knicknacks, the dirty cups on the kitchen counter, the partial grocery list magnetted to the fridge, the heavy books and sciencey magazines stacked on the dining table, then crept upstairs. He didn't hear anything, and the house felt empty, but he checked anyway, padding down the hall on silent feet, checking each room as he came to it. The upstairs bathroom, cluttered and messy, with a towel on the floor and a razor on the side of the shower/tub.

Charlie's room, obviously the same room he'd lived in since he was a kid, although adult Charlie had a double bed. Clothes were draped everywhere, T-shirts and those striped button-downs Charlie liked, and the jackets he wore to make him look more like a professor and less like a student. The whole room smelled like Charlie -- a little sweaty and a little musky, with an overlay of chalk dust and fruity-smelling markers.

Ian stared at the bed for a moment, pictured Charlie in it, imagined pinning Charlie down and fucking him in that bed, where he'd had teenage fantasies, where he'd been lonely, the too-smart kid in school with kids years older, who laughed at him or hated him or were jealous of him. Ian wanted to give him new memories in that bed, hot, sexy memories of being taken apart by someone who loved him.

He'd never even seen Charlie's room before, and it'd be a long time before they could chance having sex in Charlie's bed. Too many people treated the house like Grand Central; Alan or Don could wander in at any time, no matter what they'd said earlier or what plans they'd made.

Ian knew there wasn't anyone in the house, but he checked the rest of the place anyway. A spare room that'd probably been Don's growing up, stacked with boxes and the usual clutter of spare rooms. The master bedroom that was still Alan's, everything neat and tidy and put away, with a picture of his dead wife on the dresser and a flowered quilt folded up across the foot of the bed. The master bath was almost as tidy. There was nobody hiding in the linen closet or the attic.

He checked the garage; it was still too cluttered for a car, and there was nobody hiding there.

He hadn't expected to find Charlie at the house, not really, but there was a tight knot of disappointment in his gut anyway when he pulled out his phone and called Don.

Don didn't ask how he'd gotten into the house. He probably assumed Ian picked the lock. That was fine; he knew how, and would've if he'd had to.

By the time he got back to the FBI office, Reeves had found out who the woman was with a facial recognition system. Marilyn Berger was wanted for child abandonment in Texas, having left an infant and a two-year-old in a hotel room with a five-year-old supposedly in charge.

"That woman's had three kids?" asked Colby with a smirk. "Not bad."

Reeves scowled at him, then swivelled her chair back to the monitor, pointedly turning her back on him. "More to the point, the children seem to be half siblings. The five-year-old girl said so, anyway. Her mother told her that their daddies were all geniuses."

"So, what, this woman has a thing for smart guys?" Don had a weird look on his face, sort of half amused and half what-the-fuck.

"A lot of women do," said Megan in a neutral voice. "But most women don't go around collecting genius DNA."

"That's exactly what she's doing," said Ian. They all turned and looked at him. "I told you she was creeping Charlie out. He said she told him he should have a dozen kids, that he owed it to humanity to spread his genes around, or something. She talked about sperm banks, and Charlie figured she was going to try to make a collection herself soon."

"Wow," said Sinclair. "That's when I back away slowly, one hand on my gun."

"What, you wouldn't go out with a woman who thought you were smart?" teased Granger.

"Go out with, sure," said Sinclair. "Maybe even marry if it went that way. But that's not what this sounds like. You saying you'd be okay with being some woman's personal sperm bank?"

"A woman who looked like her? Sure, why not?"

Don looked like he wanted to smack Granger upside the head. Ian approved.

"The point is," Reeves said, her voice raised slightly to interrupt, "we have a woman with a history of targetting brilliant men. Charlie certainly qualifies. The little girl said there was no man in their life, and never had been. There's no record of Ms. Berger ever having been married, and she apparently didn't keep boyfriends around. She's not interested in being in a relationship with a man -- she just wants to have smart babies."

"Doesn't seem too interested in taking care of them once she's had them, either." Don looked disgusted with the idea. "Okay, so she's after Charlie's genes. It's still possible this is a seduction rather than a kidnapping." He held up one hand when Ian and Reeves both started to protest, and said, "I know, he looked uncomfortable on his way across the lot, but that could just be social jitters. Charlie doesn't exactly have a lot of dating experience, you know? When he was fifteen, all the girls around him were grad school students in their twenties and thought he was basically invisible. For all we know, he might've agreed to let this woman have his baby or something."

"Charlie would never agree to give a baby of his to a woman who neglects her kids," Ian said. He tried hard to keep the growl out of his voice, because he needed these people to help him find Charlie and he didn't want to be shut out of the case, especially if they decided there wasn't a case.

"She probably wouldn't have told him about that," Sinclair pointed out. "Who knows what she told him if she just wanted him to get her pregnant."

"I can't believe we're standing around talking about this." Granger took a couple of steps over to his own desk and flopped down into his chair, scrubbing his face with both hands. "I mean, seriously? Aren't we supposed to be after bank robbers and kidnappers and terrorists?"

Ian was tired of Granger's attitude and then some. "How about a kidnapper who's terrorizing someone you know? Would that qualify?"

"We don't know she's--"

"All right, cut it out." Don glared at Granger and Ian both. "This woman is a nutcase, and at the very least she needs to answer for leaving her little kids alone. And we need more info about what's up with her and Charlie, which means finding them so we can ask if he's okay. Which means we keep on this."

They were all staring at each other with a variety of angry or impatient expressions when a beep from Reeves's computer drew their attention. She brought up another window and said, "There, we got a hit on Charlie's cell phone."

"There," said Don, sounding relieved at being able to _do_ something finally. "We have a target. Gear up and let's move out."

Finally.


	6. Chapter 6

Charlie's phone was in a small motel on the outskirts of a town appropriately named Los Ratones, an hour east of downtown. The place wasn't a fleabag, but it wasn't a Hilton, either. A main building at the far end of the parking lot held the offices, a gift shop and a coffee shop, while the guest rooms were in two long rows on either side, stretching from the road past the main building to the back of the property at the foot of a stretch of barren, rocky hills. The phone signal came from the room at the far rear of the property, on the left.

It would've been a decent choice for bank robbers hiding out, with windows on three sides, but so far as they could tell, no one inside was watching for anyone closing in. Ian suspected that Ms. Berger just didn't want to be disturbed.

The thought that Charlie might've been screaming at any point, and she didn't want any near neighbors to hear, just got Ian's heart pounding and adrenaline flowing. He couldn't function properly that way, so he suppressed that thought.

The FBI SUV had parked up the road. Granger and Sinclair went ahead into the darkness, around the back end of a rockery that covered a couple of acres next to the motel, to scout out the room -- at Don's insistence.

"You're on a hair trigger, Edgerton," he'd said. "We don't need you going off if it's not necessary. Wait a few, we'll see what's going on."

They'd had a staring contest, during which Don had added, "I don't want you blowing this woman's head off because you have a burr up your ass. You're too valuable to the Bureau to spend the next thirty years in prison."

Ian had set his jaw and given a sharp nod. Ian didn't give a damn about the Bureau right then, but if Ian went to prison for murder, it'd hurt Charlie. And he was selfish enough not to want to spend the next decades locked up -- away from Charlie, and the rest of the world -- on his own account, too. Prison would suck, even if putting a bullet in that woman's head would be wonderfully satisfying.

Seven minutes later, Granger's voice came over the radio -- "False alarm, Don. They're having a good time, private party. It'd be rude to crash it."

Don gave Ian a look that said to keep quiet, then said into the radio, "What exactly are you seeing?"

A heavy sigh came over the radio. "Giddy-up cowgirl? Do I have to spell it out?"

Ian spat out a curse and ran, his rifle in one hand. Don shouted after him, but Ian ignored him. He'd been patient long enough, and he wasn't going to bother arguing with Granger. The guy obviously couldn't imagine any man not being enthusiastic about having a chance to fuck a pretty blonde. Ian wasn't about to leave Charlie with that bitch while he convinced Granger that he was an idiot.

Don was pissed off and shouting, but Ian was fast. The night was dark and overcast, and being the best tracker in the Bureau also made you one of the best at evasion. The rockery provided a lot of hiding places, between the hills of gravel, piles of larger rocks, stacks of slab stone, plus forklifts and trucks and bins. Ian vanished into the middle of it all, and the voices of the other agents faded into the distance.

They had radios, though, and Ian was sure Granger and Sinclair would be watching for him at the motel. Instead of going straight there, he made his way out the back of the rockery and up onto the dark hill. He moved over in the direction of the motel until he found a spot with a perfect corner view that let him see in both the front and the side windows of the end room, where Charlie and the woman were.

He sat with his back against a boulder and raised his rifle, looking through the scope. There, she hadn't even pulled the curtains, probably figuring nobody would be out there in the dark where there were no buildings.

The room was small, with the bed opposite the door. A blonde head bobbed up and down over a smooth, bare back, down to where the window cut off the view just above her waist, all in a rear three-quarter view. A naked, round breast bobbed in time with her movements. Ian's scope let him see a freckle just over the right shoulderblade.

He couldn't see Charlie at all, which gave him proof -- if he'd needed any -- that Charlie wasn't a willing participant. Charlie was an enthusiastic and tactile lover. If he'd been actively making love to her, even with her on top, Ian would've seen him, at least his hands, on her shoulders, her arms, cupping her cheek, around the side of her breast. There was nothing.

Ian's blood burned. His lover was being raped at that moment, and the fucking FBI wouldn't let him near.

But Ian didn't need to be near.

He centered the crosshairs on the back of her head. She was fucking Charlie in a regular rhythm; moving or not, blowing her skull open would be trivially easy.

Don's voice said "prison" in his head. And Charlie's face was there, those huge dark eyes, showing his distaste when they'd first met and he'd learned what Ian did for a living. He'd come around, yes, seen that what Ian did was necessary, that he saved innocent lives. Shooting murderers who were after their next victim -- Charlie could deal with that.

Charlie would have a harder time dealing with having to clean a woman's blood and brains off his own face. The fact that her offense was against _him_ would just make Charlie that much more likely to forgive her, later, after it was all over. Or at least strongly disagree that she needed killing.

He was pretty sure Charlie wouldn't love him if he murdered the bitch, and that's what it'd be if he blew her head off right then.

Ian gritted his teeth, then deliberately relaxed. He shifted his aim lower, to the left, to the door of the room, the knob, the lock under it, then gently squeezed the trigger.

In the wake of the shot, Ian heard shocked screams and angry shouting -- loud, upset voices carried on the cold night air. He jammed his rifle back into its case, yanked up the zipper, and slung it over his shoulder while he ran down the hill, sure-footed among the rocks and weeds and pebbly dirt. Before he'd gone more than twenty steps, he heard the loud crash of a door being kicked in.

Forty seconds later, Ian pushed past Sinclair and shouldered Granger aside on his way through the broken door and into the room. Reeves had the naked woman in a ratty, upholstered chair in one corner, while Don bent over Charlie, trying to unbuckle a leather gag.

Charlie was naked too, his arms stretched over his head, wrists buckled to the headboard. His eyes were huge and terrified, tear tracks shining in the light of the ceiling lamp. His cock was still hard and shining-wet, pointing straight up at the ceiling.

Ian moved around to the other side of the bed, opposite Don, and pulled a knife out of his boot. He snapped, "Move," shoving Don's hands out of the way, and cut the leather strap holding the gag in Charlie's mouth, then yanked it out.

"Ian!" Charlie was gasping, his voice croaking and rough.

Two more jerking cuts and Charlie's wrists were free. He clutched at Ian like a baby monkey, all arms and legs. Ian felt Charlie's cock pressing against his stomach; it just made him madder.

Pushing all the anger down, he pulled Charlie close, rubbing his back with one hand while the other cupped the back of his head. "Got you, Professor. It's okay, I've got you."

"Ian, Ian, Ian...."

"Shh, it's all right, it's over."

Ian looked over Charlie's shoulder to see Don scowling at him. Ian scowled right back, his arms tightening around Charlie.

Sinclair came up to the foot of the bed, paused a moment, then said, "Don."

"What!" Don snapped, turning the glare on his agent.

Sinclair held up a prescription bottle in a latex-gloved hand, tilted it to show a few blue pills at the bottom. Then he pointed to the nightstand on Don's side of the bed.

Don looked at a mostly empty water bottle. There was a grainy blue sludge at the bottom.

"Shit. David, get on the phone -- Poison Control, maybe? -- and find out what an overdose of this crap can do, and what we should do about it."

"Paramedics are on the way, Don," said Granger, the first useful thing he'd done all day.

It wasn't the kind of place that had robes, so Reeves let the woman get dressed before cuffing her. Ian noticed only because he was keeping half an eye on the bitch. If she so much as twitched in any way that Reeves hadn't told her to, Ian was going to grab his ankle piece and blow her brains out. Reeves could deal with wiping brain matter off _her_ face if necessary.

When they found a thirty-eight with the woman's clothes, stuck inside one shoe and covered with her skirt and sweater, he had to look away. At least that answered the question of how she'd gotten Charlie out of his office and into the motel room.

Most of his attention was on Charlie, who was shaking and gasping in a struggle to stop crying. Ian just held him, rubbing his back, rocking slowly, refused to let anyone else -- including his embarassed and pissed off big brother -- touch him until the paramedics showed up. Ian was pretty sure that if Charlie himself hadn't been wrapped around Ian, Don would've forced the matter. As it was, Ian was pretty sure they were going to have a discussion later. All he could do at that point was hope that Don and his team were willing and able to maintain some discretion.

And if they weren't, Ian would deal. Staying completely in the closet wasn't worth trusting anyone else to come after Charlie.

Reeves took Berger out and Ian relaxed a fraction. By the time the paramedics came in, his whole attention was on Charlie, who was still hyperventilating and shaking.

The lead medic, a young black man with a perfect, neutral demeanor, came in and spotted Charlie as the patient right off. He focused on Charlie's wrists, red and raw from where he'd fought the straps, but Don said, "Viagra overdose. We don't know how much."

The medic's eyes stopped moving for about a tenth of a second. He nodded and said to the back of Charlie's head, "Sir, do you remember how many pills you took?"

Charlie's head shook back and forth, fast and jerky. Don, who'd caught a pair of gloves from Sinclair, picked up the water bottle with its remaining blue sludge and held it up to show the medic. "He was dosed. This wasn't voluntary." The medic reached out for it, but Don pulled it away. "Sorry, this is evidence."

The medic nodded. "We're going to have to take him in immediately. The symptoms of overdose can be severe if not treated right away."

Charlie hung on to Ian's hand, hard enough that Ian's fingers were tingling by the time Charlie was loaded on the gurney, covered with a blanket, and taken out to the ambulance. The second medic eyed Ian's rifle case, but didn't say anything when Ian climbed in along with Charlie. Short of prying Charlie off him by force, they weren't going to separate them, and that was fine with Ian.

He sat on a metal bench built into the side of the ambulance, right next to Charlie, who maintained eye contact the whole time. Once Charlie's face wasn't pressed into the crook of Ian's neck anymore, he could see that Charlie's face was tense and lined with pain.

It must hurt. Hell, it had to hurt. He wrapped his other hand around Charlie's clutching fingers and squeezed gently. "It'll be all right," he said. He was pretty sure it was even true.

The medic, who was filling out paperwork on a clipboard and checking Charlie's heart with a stethoscope every couple of minutes, maintained a neutral face just as unreadable as that of the first guy, all the way to the hospital.


	7. Chapter 7

**Charlie**

At first, Charlie was in too much pain to care about the details of his situation. He'd been afraid and ashamed and desperate while Marilyn was... well, fucking him, but that was over, Ian was there, and all that was left was the pain.

His dick hurt, more than he'd ever experienced before. He'd been in awkward situations sometimes, learned what "blue balls" meant, ached for relief. That was nothing. It felt like the skin on his dick was going to split open and peel right off, and he couldn't stand it anymore, they _had_ to do something or he was going to go crazy.

His head hurt, throbbed with a harsh, sharp pain as bad as any headache he'd ever had.

And his heart was pounding. At first he thought it was just stress. Understandable that his heart would be slamming when he'd been kidnapped and raped by some insane woman who thought he should be happy to give her a baby. But he'd felt a dull pain in his chest a few times and he was getting worried.

He lay in a small room off the main emergency area, with a bunch of ECG leads pasted all over his chest -- and wasn't taking _those_ off going to be fun? -- and a blood pressure cuff that automatically inflated every ten minutes or so, and tightened down enough to hurt while it took his blood pressure. The close monitoring was good, that they were keeping an eye on things, and bad, that it was necessary.

He remembered hearing a couple of students laughing over something on a tablet, once, a couple of months earlier. Some guy'd overdosed on Viagra and ended up having his penis amputated. Charlie tried really hard not to think about that. It was probably just an urban legend anyway, right?

He made himself ask the doctor, because once the thought got into his head he couldn't not know, and it turned out, not so much an urban legend.

"It has happened in the past, Dr. Eppes," said the ER doctor. She hadn't laughed at him, of course, but she had a sort of disapproving aura about her and he found himself leaning away from her when she spoke. "But only when the priapism went untreated for over twenty-four hours. You came in in plenty of time."

She glanced over at Ian, who'd been by Charlie's side ever since the FBI had rescued him -- and wouldn't _that_ be fun to think about later, the whole team seeing him like that, knowing what'd happened -- then she looked back at Charlie and said, "I'm sure you realize now that experimenting with this medication isn't a good idea."

Before Charlie could protest, Ian was leaning forward and practically snarling at the woman. "He was kidnapped and forcibly dosed with this stuff. He didn't 'experiment' with it, and I don't appreciate any self-righteous accusations."

The woman took a step back back, her eyes widening -- although only a little, she was obviously tough inside -- and said, "I apologize." She paused, then added, "I can call for a counselor to come down and speak with you if you'd like."

Charlie looked away and shook his head, whispering, "No thank you." He couldn't stand to talk to a shrink right then.

Even talking to the doctor was more difficult than it should've been. Having her examine him had been agony, fear and shame both, and even now that he was covered up again, he didn't want to look at her, but he felt a need to watch her at the same time.

"It's up to you," said the doctor, with a glance at his wrists, "but you've obviously been affected by what was done to you. You should think about talking to someone eventually, even if you'd rather not do so just now."

Charlie nodded and turned away, looking at Ian's hand, still holding his. He loved Ian's hands, strong hands, slightly larger than Charlie's, fitting Ian's larger frame.

"All right then," said the doctor. "We'll see how this goes. You should be feeling some pain relief within twenty to thirty minutes at most. If not, have a nurse let me know and we'll try something else."

Charlie nodded again and the doctor left the little room he was in.

Ian squeezed Charlie's hand, then said, "I'll be back in a minute, not going far," and slipped away.

Charlie watched, wide-eyed and stifling a protest, but Ian only stepped outside the room; Charlie could still see him through the open door. Ian called the doctor back and they had a low-voiced conversation. The doctor said, "Dr. Eppes didn't request--" but Ian cut her off, interrupted with something harsh, his voice low, his posture agressive. Finally the doctor nodded and said, "All right, you're right. I'll have someone else assigned."

Ian nodded and came back in. He left the door open, but there was a curtain that ran across the room between the door and the foot of the bed, and Ian pulled that closed, giving them some privacy. He sat back down in his chair next to Charlie and took his hand again.

"I asked her to get you a male doctor," he said.

"What? Why?"

"Charlie, you're stressed out, nervous, hypervigilant. It's perfectly normal, but you don't need any more stressors. If a woman who was raped by a man comes in, they don't give her a male doctor. You shouldn't have to deal with a woman doctor being in here right now, much less touching you."

Oh.

Part of Charlie wanted to argue that he wasn't a woman who'd been raped, but only half of that was true. He _had_ been raped, and... yeah. He did feel slightly less tense, less afraid, with the doctor gone. He swallowed and said, "Okay. Thanks."

"My job to look out for you," said Ian. He leaned forward and kissed Charlie, lightly, on the cheek. Then he looked into Charlie's eyes, and kissed him on the lips. It was brief and gentle, obviously not meaning to start anything, just a comfort.

Charlie tried to smile at him, was pretty sure he failed. Ian smiled back anyway.

A nurse came in and injected something into the IV line running to his right elbow. He hadn't been paying close enough attention at the time to remember what. The initial flurry of activity was done, though, and it was just a matter of waiting, and hoping that his headache went away, and the chest pains stopped, and that the tent he was pitching in the blanket spread over his still-naked body would go down and his dick would stop feeling like it was about to split open.

Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. He could stand it for that much longer. Not that he had much choice.

The hospital wasn't precisely noisy, but wasn't quiet either. People walked past, sometimes talking -- nurses, techs, a few doctors, occasionally a patient, or someone looking for a family member.

There was an announcement over the PA system a couple of times, calling a doctor to room whatever.

Charlie had a feeling that he should be, well, feeling more. Marilyn spent however long it'd been -- Charlie didn't even know -- fucking him while he lay strapped to the motel bed. She'd held the gun on him, made him drink the gritty, bitter tasting water, a big smile on her face, eager anticipation. Then she'd made him put the gag on himself, buckle the cuffs on, fasten the first to the headboard. She'd secured the second herself with one hand while the other kept the muzzle of the gun aimed right at his face.

His brain had been pretty sure she wouldn't shoot him. After all, if she wanted his genes, she couldn't get that from him if he was dead. His gut wasn't so sure, though. She'd been so angry when he turned her down. He'd tried to be nice about it, didn't want to hurt her feelings, but there was really no good way to turn down that kind of request. Except it hadn't been a request.

You never got used to having guns aimed at you. At least Charlie never had. Don probably was. Don would've thought of some way to escape, would've known how to disarm her without getting hurt, without having a bullet hit any of the students who'd been around while they left campus together. Charlie'd had some hand-to-hand instruction, but with the gun pointing at him, all he'd remembered was being slammed into the mat over and over again during training.

All he'd managed to do was make sure his phone was on while he stripped down, ignoring her comments about how he was cuter than the self-made billionaire, how he had a better butt than the rocket scientist, wondering how many times she'd done this and to how many men.

Then he was bound to the bed and she'd put the gun down, but only so she could take off her own clothes, all teasing smiles and moves she thought were sexy. She ran her hands over him, stroking him until his erection came, stiff and painful.

"You'll enjoy it, you'll see, once we get started, I'll make sure you enjoy it."

She was wrong. There'd been a certain amount of physical stimulation, once the pills had made him hard and she'd started in, because friction is friction and the body responds. His mind had been shamed and horrified the whole time, though, and all he could think was that no one would miss him, no one would even know anything was wrong, not until Ian came in the next afternoon for their hike and Charlie wasn't there, Ian would know something was wrong but he'd have no idea where Charlie was, where to start looking for him, Charlie barely knew where he was so how would anyone else know, would they even think to try to track his phone, and she was rubbing her hands up and down on his chest, and kissing him around the gag, which made him want to vomit, but if he did he'd choke and no one would even miss him until tomorrow--

"Charlie. Come on, Professor, wake up, it's okay, it's over, I'm right here."

Ian's hand squeezed his, and another hand was stroking gently up and down Charlie's bare arm. He opened his eyes and Ian was bending over him, the lines around his mouth more prominent than usual. His eyes were searching, as if he'd been trying to pull Charlie's soul up out of the nightmare.

Charlie grabbed for Ian with his own right hand, forgetting the IV needle until he felt a jerking pinch and the pull of tape.

"There you are, easy, watch your IV." Ian sat down on the edge of Charlie's bed, which wasn't really a bed, but sort of a padded table, or a backless, armless couch. It wasn't very comfortable, but at that moment Charlie didn't care. Ian slid an arm under Charlie's shoulders and pulled him into a hug, light and careful.

Charlie leaned into him, letting the feel of Ian's solid chest under his cheek, a big, warm hand pressing into his back, banish the memories, or at least drive them to the periphery of his mind.

He left his right arm dangling so as not to pull on the IV line. He looped his left arm around Ian's waist and snuggled as close as he could, surrounding himself with the feel and scent of his lover. Here, now, hospital, Ian -- staying grounded kept the sight and feel and smell of Marilyn away, behind mental walls made of smudged glass. She faded into shape, movement, lurking in the corner of his mind's eye.

They stayed like that, Ian perched on the edge of the bed/couch/thing and Charlie sitting up, leaning into him, until a familiar voice said, "Hello? Charlie?" from the other side of the curtain.

Dad.

Of course Don would've called him, found him, let him know Charlie was in the hospital. Charlie looked up at Ian, wondering, trying to figure out how to ask.

Ian whispered, "Up to you, Professor. If you need me, I'm here, as close as you want."

A warm flush passed through him and he leaned a little harder into Ian for a moment. He knew how serious this was for him, and the offer -- making it Charlie's choice -- reminded him why he'd actually fallen for the guy, as opposed to just having some fun once or twice.

Charlie considered pulling away, but the thought brought a bolt of panic. He knew he should lie back, let his dad think Ian was just there as a friend, or maybe had been assigned for protection. He should do that, but he couldn't. His brain knew what he should do for Ian, but his hand wouldn't let go, his body wouldn't move away. He needed Ian right there; he felt his heart speeding up and his breath shortening at the thought of moving away. Which was stupid because they'd just been holding hands while the doctor was there, but fine, it was stupid -- now that he had that security, the feeling of being perfectly safe with Ian _right there,_ he couldn't give it up. And Ian said he didn't have to. He was going to be selfish; he could hate himself for it later.

He turned his head so he was facing the door, although still resting his cheek on Ian's shoulder, and said, "Come on in, Dad."

The curtain poked and billowed, then his father stepped through. Looked, looked again, stopped, stared. Coughed and started moving again, over to Charlie's other side, opposite Ian.

"Charlie, are you all right? Don said some woman took you away from campus?" He kept his eyes on Charlie's face after a glance at his chest -- bare all the way down to the blanket edge bunched at his waist -- but was obviously very aware of Ian, a man he knew only slightly, and then as someone who occasionally worked with Don, who was sitting there on the bed holding his son. Charlie could _see_ him wondering what the hell was up, trying to figure out how to ask.

Charlie closed his eyes for a moment. Don was always trying to protect their dad from the harsher realities of his job, especially when Charlie got involved. The way Charlie had turned onto one hip when he'd leaned into Ian's hold, his still-hard-and-aching dick wasn't as obvious as it'd been before. And it sounded like Don hadn't given their dad any details at all about what'd happened.

Trying to think how much they could conceal long term and how much was going to come out eventually, Charlie said, "Yeah, this woman I met at the fundraiser thing on Saturday got kind of obsessed."

"Saturday? How obsessed can you get in six days?"

"Pretty obsessed, obviously," said Charlie, trying not to sound too impatient.

"Are you hurt? What did the doctor say?"

"I'll be fine," said Charlie. "We're just waiting for some medication to work." He paused, thinking, then decided to add, "I'm still in some pain." That was an understatement, but no sense getting his dad all upset.

His dad looked down at the clear plastic tube going into Charlie's arm, then followed the arm down to his wrist, where dark bruises were blooming. He looked back up to where his son clung to another man and scowled. "Charlie, what happened?"

Charlie closed his eyes, thinking, sorting through truths, which ones didn't depend upon others that he'd rather not reveal, but his father wasn't a stupid man and he said, "Charlie. Don't lie to me. Lies of omission count." He paused, then added, "Right now I'm imagining all sorts of horrible things, so you might as well tell me."

Ian tightened his hug for a moment and murmured into Charlie's hair, "Tell him. He's not fragile, he can handle it. He'll want to be able to support you."

Charlie nodded and looked at his dad. "This woman... she decided she wanted to have my baby."

His dad stared, blinked, stared again. "I take it she did more than proposition you?"

"Yeah, you could say that. She tried that first, but when I said no she showed up at my office with a gun. She took me to a hotel, drugged me with... with Viagra. Strapped me down." He stopped and swallowed, trying to think how to say it. There was no good way. He pushed the image of her out of his mind, the memory of her weight on him, pinning his hips to the bed, and whispered, "She raped me."

Charlie's dad opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. His face was raw hurt, like someone had stabbed him in the gut. They looked at each other for a few moments, while Ian's hand traced warm trails up and down Charlie's back.

Finally Charlie held up his free hand, the one that had the IV needle in it. His dad clasped it, squeezed, pressed it to his chest. Finally, his voice hollow, he said, "I don't even know... what can I do?"

His dad's hand was warm, and the touch was comforting. Like Ian's but different. Charlie said, "I don't know. Nothing. Stay a while."

"Of course." The only chair in the room was on the floor behind Ian. Charlie's dad perched on the side of the bed-couch-thing, reaching out with the hand that wasn't clasping Charlie's to run warm fingers across his forehead, pet his hair, squeeze his shoulder, like he needed to touch but couldn't stay still.

Charlie understood the feeling. He didn't know what to do either. What _did_ you do? What did anyone do? That might be something a therapist could tell him, but he still didn't want to talk to a stranger right then.

Right then he was sandwiched between his father and his lover, and he felt safe. That was all he could ask for, all he could think to want, right at that moment.


	8. Chapter 8

Half an hour later, a few other things to want had occurred to Charlie, primarily some effective drugs. He still hurt, and even cuddling with Ian and having his dad there weren't really helping, because emotional support could only take you so far. Much more and he'd start contemplating the desirability of amputation.

All right, not really, but fuck, it hurt!

A nurse finally came in and asked, "How's your pain, Dr. Eppes?" which was pretty discreet of her, but Charlie figured they had a course in nursing school that taught them _not_ to ask questions like, "Has your raging boner gone down yet?" especially in front of other people.

"About the same," said Charlie, without lifting his head off Ian's chest. "My head's a little better, and the chest pains aren't as frequent, but the other is just as bad."

His dad said, "Wait, chest pains?" and looked all alarmed again. Great.

"Well, that's not good," said the nurse. Understatement of the year. "I'll let the doctor know and we'll see what we can do about that." She smiled and left.

"Chest pains?" his dad repeated, squeezing Charlie's hand harder.

"It's a side effect of the stuff Marilyn gave me," said Charlie, closing his eyes again. He really didn't want to have this conversation with his father.

"I thought it was... I mean--"

"Viagra has vascular effects," said Ian. "That's how it works. An overdose can be serious. That's why he's here instead of at home sleeping it off." He paused, then ruffled Charlie's hair and said, "Or whatever."

Charlie poked him and grunted a protest. "That's my _dad!"_ he whispered.

"And you caught this woman?" his dad asked, his voice harsh. "She's going to jail, yes?"

"Yes," said Ian. "I did not put a bullet in her head, so she's going to prison. I expect a medal for restraint."

Charlie heard a harsh note in Ian's voice for the first time, and... well, he hadn't thought of that, of how all this would've affected Ian. He hadn't even thought... Ian must've come in early, couldn't get ahold of him, couldn't find him. He must've been kind of frantic and Charlie hadn't even considered it. Selfish of him. Or maybe not, under the circumstances.

Dad said, "I don't know, I'd have probably shot her."

Ian huffed out something that sounded like agreement, but Charlie said, "No!" He looked up at Ian, serious. "I don't want you ever going to prison for me. I get the impulse, and I love you for it, but it wouldn't have been a righteous shoot, would it?" He waited until Ian shook his head, his face expressionless. "I didn't think so. I'm glad you didn't. It would've been murder. You're not a murderer, and I don't want you to become one for me. And I wouldn't have wanted to have to visit you in prison for the next twenty-five years."

"No," said Ian, "that would've been a definite downside."

Trying to ignore his dad less than a foot away, Charlie whispered, "We could've gotten married before you went in. At least then we'd get conjugal visits."

Ian smirked and whispered back, "They're 'extended family visits' now, and violent offenders can't ever qualify for them. I'll just have to stay out of prison."

"Yeah, that's the best idea." Charlie turned his face to Ian's shirt, soft and warm, filled with his scent. Losing Ian on top of everything else would've been devastating. He felt slightly ashamed for even being able to joke about it.

"So," said his dad, his voice sounding loud after the minute of whispering, "I take it you two have a thing going?"

"Yeah, we do," said Charlie. "Dad, this is Ian, my boyfriend. We've been together for a couple of years. We'd be grateful if you'd be discreet about it."

"Discreet? This is the twenty-first century -- why the secret? You can't think I'd have had a problem with it?" His dad sounded a little upset and a little hurt.

"It was my request, Mr. Eppes," said Ian. "I'm in law enforcement. No matter what the rules and laws say about no discrimination, I have to be able to trust the people I work with. If someone has a homophobic grudge, it could be dangerous. And I work all over the country -- some places are less enlightened than others."

"All right, I get that, but why couldn't you tell us? We're family. Does Don know?"

"He does now," Charlie said. "But only because of all this. We hadn't told anyone before. You weren't singled out."

"That doesn't help as much as you probably expect," said his dad. "I understand what Ian said perfectly. I'd have kept it quiet. I'm sure Don would have too."

"Actually," said Ian, "I got the impression that Don and I are going to be having some words eventually." When Charlie opened his mouth to protest, Ian ran gentle fingers over it, stalling the anger that'd been about to come out. "He's your big brother, Charlie. He's going to be just as upset at not being let in on the secret as your dad is, plus he's going to have to give me the big brother lecture about how he'll hunt me down and kill me if I hurt you. It'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" asked Charlie. "Did he say that, or are you guessing? What if he's really angry?" Don had always wanted to shelter Charlie from the more violent side of the FBI. He could easily imagine Don having serious issues with Charlie being involved with a sniper. Aside from the whole, "Some guy is fucking my baby brother," thing, which would probably have been exactly the same if Charlie had been Charlotte, but hadn't come up at all when Charlie had been with Amita. Because gender biases sucked.

"If he's really angry, I'll deal with it. I promise I won't break him too much. And only if he tries to break me first."

"Don won't be breaking anyone," said Charlie's dad. "I didn't raise my sons to be bigots. I don't understand being attracted to another man, but then I don't understand your fascination with math, either. So long as you're happy, that's what matters."

"Thanks, Dad."

They sat silent for a few minutes. Charlie was about to start another emotionally charged conversation, just hoping it'd distract him from the physical pain, when a male voice said, "Knock, knock?" from the far side of the curtain.

Charlie said, "Come in," and a dark man wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard came around the curtain and into the room.

"Mr. Eppes?"

"Dr. Eppes," said Ian.

"Dr. Eppes," said the doctor. "I'm Dr. Patil. The nurse said you're still in pain?"

"Yeah," said Charlie. "And I'm, it's still... you know. That really hurts." He very deliberately did not look at his father when he added, "It's really bad. It feels like it's about to pop, or the skin is about to burst and peel off, or something."

The doctor gave him a sympathetic wince. "I'm sorry, but since I'm taking over for Dr. Bayner, I need to examine you."

Yes, of course he did. Charlie swallowed, nodded, rolled back over flat on his back, keeping hold of both hands, Ian's and his dad's. Ian sat back down on his chair, and Charlie's dad stood up, giving the doctor room to do whatever he needed to do.

Dr. Patil pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then lifted the blanket off Charlie's feet. He had him bend his knees, then draped the blanket so only he could see Charlie's dick. It was cool of him; he could've just assumed Charlie was okay with having everything waving at Ian and his dad, since he hadn't asked them to leave. Charlie relaxed a little. Not much because he knew it was going to hurt, but at least all the distress was going to be physical. He was still swinging back and forth between which was the worst.

The doctor looked first, his expression neutral. When he touched, it was light and impersonal. Charlie sucked in a pained breath, squeezing down on both hands.

It was over in less than a minute, although it felt like longer. Dr. Patil pulled the blanket down and said, "All right, we'll try another vascular dilator and see how that goes. I'm going to give you some Dilaudid for the pain at the same time -- there's no reason to suffer while we work on fixing the root problem."

"Thanks," said Charlie. "That sounds great."

Dr. Patil looked at his clipboard and said, "Dr. Bayner discussed your condition with you? She explained that permanent damage is extremely unlikely?"

"Yes," said Charlie.

"All right, good. We don't usually see irreparable damage unless the patient delays treatment for at least twenty-four hours. That's not the case here, not even close, so you should come out of it just fine. We're monitoring your heart, but again, we don't expect any cardiac incidents at this point. Your blood tests show you had a severe overdose, yes, but other men have taken more. I know you're in extreme discomfort right now, but I'm optimistic about the ultimate result."

"That's great, thanks," said Charlie. It was good to know, but didn't make him feel any better at that moment.

The doctor nodded and left.

Ian got up and said, "Here, Mr. Eppes, take the chair." It was light enough that he picked it up and passed it right over Charlie.

His dad said, "Thank you," and settled down onto it, taking Charlie's hand again once he was seated. He was holding it tighter than he had before, and Charlie figured it was hearing what the doctor had said. He was just happy his dad didn't want to talk about it, because what was there to talk about?

Ian sat back down on the bed-couch-thing, and Charlie shifted back onto one hip, curled up and leaned onto Ian's chest once more, sighing in relief. Having the blanket lying directly on his swollen dick actually hurt more than having it sort of draped across his lap, tented up by one knee. He focused on breathing more slowly, knowing that staying tense would just make all the various pains worse.

They were all silent for a few moments, then his dad said, "So, Ian, you're not in the area very often, are you?"

"No, sir," said Ian. "I travel all over the country, wherever the Bureau needs me."

"Well, whenever you're in LA, I hope you'll come to dinner at the house. I assume you and Charlie have been sneaking around whenever you're here -- you don't have to do that anymore."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, call me Alan. If you've been together for two years, even if it's on and off, you're hardly a fling. If I'd known all along, I'd have been considering you family already, so we might as well catch up to where we're supposed to be."

Charlie heard a smile in Ian's voice when he said, "Thanks, Alan."

A few minutes later, the nurse came in with a pair of syringes. She injected both into a plug-thing in Charlie's IV tubing, then said, "There, you should be feeling better soon."

"That's what you said last time." Charlie was only half joking.

"Well, this time we'll hope it works." She smiled at him and held up a set of crossed fingers, then left.

"Do I want to trust medical professionals who believe crossing their fingers helps?" wondered Charlie.

"She's being nice, Charlie," said his dad. "I'm sure she knows it doesn't actually do anything -- it's like saying 'bless you' when someone sneezes. It just means you're wishing them well."

"I know," said Charlie. "I'm just tired of hurting." He was quiet for a few seconds, then added in a low voice, "This is kind of scary."

Ian's arms tightened around him. Charlie'd figured they would, and he'd wanted that reassurance. He'd feel bad about being a needy baby later.

They were mostly quiet, waiting, watching the occasional bubble run up the plastic tubing toward Charlie's arm. The pain medication the doctor ordered, the Dilaudid, must've been the good stuff, because the pain faded within a few minutes and Charlie was starting to feel light-headed and sort of swoopy when Don stepped past the curtain.

"Charlie, buddy, you okay?"

"Hey, Don." Charlie tried to smile at him. "Yeah, feeling better. Doctor gave me the good stuff."

Don said, "Great, I'm glad." He looked over at their father and said, "Dad," then gave Ian a hard stare and said, "Edgerton."

Their father said, "Hey, Don. You threw that woman in jail, right?"

"Yeah, she's being processed. She'll be going away for a while." He kept staring at Ian while talking to their dad, until he was in full glare mode, as if he could pry Ian and Charlie apart by sheer force of will.

Charlie felt Ian's hand rubbing slowly up and down his back. He liked it, hoped it didn't stop. Don could suck it up. Charlie didn't try to dictate who Don could be with, and he wasn't about to let Don have an opinion on who _he_ could be with either.

Their dad looked back and forth between Ian-and-Charlie and Don, then gave Don a hard stare of his own and said, "I told Ian that he's welcome to come to the house for dinner whenever he's in LA, now that he and Charlie don't have to hide their relationship from us anymore."

Don gave their dad an annoyed look, then turned back to Ian and said, "Yeah, Edgerton, can I see you outside for a few?"

Charlie tried to say, "Don, shut up," but it came out sort of garbled. At the same time, their dad said, "Don, I expect you to be civil about this," in his I'm-disappointed-in-you dad-voice.

Ian gave Charlie a hug, then set him gently back so he was reclining on the bed/couch/thing and said, "No, it's okay. Let's go talk." He leaned down and kissed Charlie on the lips, gave him a smile and said, "Your dad's here, and I'll be back in a few."

Charlie was trying to formulate some kind of a protest, but then Ian and Don were gone. Charlie just hoped they didn't mangle each other too much.

His dad sighed and said, "I hope they don't damage each other too much."

Charlie thought, Great minds, and closed his eyes, dozing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Ian**

Ian followed Don out of Emergency. Don paused in the general waiting area, glanced around at the people sitting, standing, some tense and some slumped over, then kept going. They went outside, where it was still dark and chilly, turned right and walked a few yards away from the entrance before Don rounded on him.

"Just what do you think you're doing? You're screwing around with my little brother behind my back, and now you're glomming on to my dad? What the hell, Edgerton?"

Ian crossed his arms and leaned against the stucco wall. "Didn't know I needed your permission to see Charlie. The guy's an adult, Eppes. He can do what he wants."

"And he wants to do you? Seriously? What makes you think you're good for him? Bad enough when he ends up in some asshole's sights because he's helping my team out -- Charlie doesn't need the kind of world _you_ live in."

Don was obviously pissed off, but he looked confused at the same time, and a little scared around the edges. Ian gave him a break for that; he knew he wasn't exactly the kind of guy a family dreamed of having a kid -- or a little brother -- bring home for dinner.

"I'm not my job, Eppes. I care about Charlie. I'm not going to put him in danger."

"You can't guarantee you won't."

"Neither can you, but that hasn't stopped you from dragging him out into the field when it's necessary. Amita left him because she couldn't stand the thought of the guy she loved getting shot at on a regular basis -- that's on you."

"I know!" Don shouted. The words echoed off the wall, sharp and intense. "I know," he said more quietly. "But we need him. He helps us get violent assholes into prison where they belong. What's your justification?"

Ian shrugged. "I love him. I'm lucky enough that he loves me back. That's all the justification I need, especially since he's never been in danger with me."

They stared at each other, Don frowning, glaring, clearly struggling to come up with an argument that didn't make him look like an asshole.

"He shouldn't be here," Don said eventually. "All this, our world, blood and criminals and killing. It's not his place. Bad enough he comes running into it after me. He should have something normal to go home to, something that reminds him there's more he should be doing."

"Something like Amita?" Ian asked. "He tried that. Didn't work. Unless you're willing to cut him loose, anyone he found to be with would have to be able to deal with that kind of stress, loving someone who has the same chance of being injured or killed as a cop. Not a lot of people can handle that. I can."

"He needs some normal in his life! You're not it!"

"Does that mean you're willing to keep him out of your side of it? Aside from that fact that he'd be mad as hell, and hurt? Because if you want him to have normal, you keeping your profession away from him would give him that."

"He's my brother!"

"And it's great that you get along and can work together as much as you do." Ian paused, then asked, "Is that what this is really about? You afraid I'm going to take him away from you? I don't expect him to come on the road with me, and he wouldn't even if I asked."

"No! I mean, no, that's not it. I'm not jealous, that's stupid. I'll still be his brother when you're long gone."

"You're assuming I'm going anywhere." Ian shrugged. "I suppose it might not last forever -- most relationships don't -- but we've done pretty well so far, and I don't plan to wander away any time soon."

"What if you get killed?"

"What if _you_ get killed?"

Don just glared at him, so Ian said, "Look, I don't know what this is about. If it's that we kept it secret, then I guess I understand, up to a point. Charlie was worried about what you'd say -- and it looks like he was right -- and I'm healthier letting everyone in the Bureau think I'm straight. You know what it's like for gay LEOs. I'd just as soon not find myself without backup I was counting on, or with a bullet in the back from someone who thinks it's a personal insult to have the badge worn by a fag. And with me out of the area so often, we didn't even know it'd work. You don't generally announce a one-off to your friends and family, right? We didn't know whether it'd be any more than a one-off, at first. But I called him, and he called me, and we kept in contact. It's been working fine for a couple of years now--"

"A couple of _years?_ What the hell, Edgerton?" Don took a step closer, his fists balled, and Ian shifted his weight, ready to defend himself if he had to.

They glared at one another from a distance of just a few inches. Eventually Don looked away. "I don't know what the hell to think, okay? You're nothing like anyone he's gone out with before, and I don't just mean because you're a guy. I respect the hell out of you, all right? You're great at your job, and it's great having you here helping us out when we need you. But you're nothing like Charlie."

"No, I'm not," said Ian. "I think that's why it works."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"Maybe you should try dating someone who's not involved with your work some time."

Don snorted out a laugh. "Sure. Who else could understand when I need to roll out of bed at two ayem, or take off just as we're sitting down to dinner? For the fourth time that month?"

"Surgeon? Fire fighter? Search and rescue? Veterinarian? Or how about just someone who loves you and respects the work you do?"

"It's not that easy and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. Which is why having Charlie, who understands that I have to be gone most of the time, is a gift. I get that, and I appreciate the hell out of him."

Don turned around and stared across the parking lot. "I just want what's right for Charlie."

"I get that. And when I'm away, I like knowing he has you looking out for him. But he's an adult, and the decisions he makes about his life are his."

"I know! Okay, I know. But my gut is telling me you're not good for him and that I should kick your ass until you go away."

"I hope your brain is telling you that's a really bad idea," Ian said with a grin.

"Yeah, whatever. How often do you mix it up close-in, rifle-boy?"

"Often enough." They were both smirking at each other, but Ian didn't make the mistake of thinking that meant they were okay.

Don said, "I'm gonna go in and see how Charlie's doing."

"I'll get coffee," said Ian. "I'll be back up in half an hour." That was as much of a concession as he was willing to make, but he _was_ willing to make it. Besides, he had an idea that Alan would have some words for his older son. If Don thought he could talk his father around, Ian was pretty sure he was going to be disappointed.

And either way, Ian was sure of Charlie. His opinion was the only one that mattered, really.

***

Ian found a corner table with a good view of the entire hospital cafe and sat with his coffee. He pulled out his phone and called Pete O'Halloran, his boss. Pete was technically his supervisor, but since Pete wasn't in any position to do much direct supervising, Ian thought of Pete as his handler. Pete called him with jobs, arranged transport and housing and interfaced with regional Bureau branches and local law enforcement to make sure everyone who needed to know what was up, knew.

Pete picked up on the second ring and said, "Hey, Ian. Sick of lying around already?"

"Heh, not hardly. I wanted to let you know that I'm going to take a larger chunk of my vacation time. The bean counters should be ecstatic."

"Oh? What's up?"

Ian had considered reporting it as a family emergency -- Charlie was family as far as Ian was concerned, and it'd give him a better reason to turn down a job that came up on Monday, or later that evening for that matter. But Charlie being Don's brother, and consulting for the Bureau, Ian knew that could come back and bite him on the ass. So what he said was, "A good friend has been hurt pretty bad. I know his family and I want to stick around, give them some support."

"Hell, what happened?"

Ian considered some more, then figured it'd probably go around the Bureau eventually anyway. That was the whole problem, right? "You know Don Eppes, LA office? His brother was kidnapped and sexually assaulted by some whack job. Charlie's not in great shape, and Don's ready to chew steel and spit nails. Their dad is trying to deal with both of them. They could use some support."

"Well, shit. That's the brother who's been helping them close cases, right? The math guy?"

"Yeah, that's him. I met him on that serial sniper case, two and a half years ago."

"Right, I remember. That was something. Damn. Hey, take Eppes out, get him drunk, drive him home, you know? Guy probably needs an outlet."

"That's an idea," said Ian. He didn't say what kind of an idea or why.

"Did they get the perp?"

"Yeah, she's locked up."

"She's not gonna get off on an insanity, is she?"

"That's up to the DA, but I don't think so. She tried to cover her tracks, so she clearly knew what she was doing, and that it was wrong. She's whacked, but not that way."

"Good. Hope they throw the book at her. We don't need this shit happening to our families."

"Or anyone, but I know what you mean. So, put me down for two weeks. I might extend it if it looks like I'll be needed longer."

"Two weeks it is. This'll leave a big hole, tough to work around, but I get it. And yeah, the bean counters'll get off my back for a while."

"I could always take the whole twenty-some weeks," Ian said. He was joking, but kind of wished he wasn't.

"Don't even josh about that! Murphy might hear you! Keep in touch, and I'll call you if any red-flag emergencies come up."

"Make sure it's a really huge flag, Pete. I really don't want to be dragged away unless there's no choice."

"I know, I get it. I promise, only if there's absolutely no one else."

"Thanks. I appreciate that." Ian didn't say he owed him one; he hadn't had any serious time off in a few years, usually just a couple of days here and there, if that, and if he wanted to insist on taking the whole thing, there wasn't much Pete could do. Ian was the one who went along and took pretty much every assignment. He'd keep that in reserve, though. Ian knew resources were tight, and Pete would do what he could for him.

"All right, then," said Pete. "Tell Eppes I hope his brother's okay. I'll talk to you later."

"Later," said Ian, and hung up.

He sat and drank his coffee, watching people come in and out -- nurses and doctors and patients' families -- while trying not to check his watch too often. He'd given Don half an hour and he wasn't going to go up early, however much he wanted to. The memory of Charlie clinging to him, unwilling to let go even with his dad there, got him worrying that Charlie really needed him and wouldn't be able to settle or relax until he got back.

Ian was fine being Charlie's security blanket. Charlie was a tough guy inside, and Ian was sure the fearful clinginess would fade with time. He hoped so, anyway, and if not, then there was always that therapist the first doctor had offered to recommend. Ian knew the Bureau office had some they referred agents to, when too much shit had fallen on their heads. It was the same kind of deal, and they'd get whatever help Charlie needed, if he did need it.

He tried to imagine what it was like, to have something like that happen, and was pretty sure he was failing. He was used to thinking of himself as strong, independent, pretty damn kick-ass if he did say so himself. He'd been through a few war zones, and tracked down some of the toughest, most violent bastards all over the US. He knew he could handle himself if things got bad. But wouldn't that make the feeling of helplessness, having someone get the drop on him -- however it happened -- and then do _that_ to him, that much worse?

Maybe. Imagination wasn't doing it; he had a hard time really wrapping his head around the concept, visualizing it happening, happening to _him._

And while Charlie had never really thought of himself as particularly bad-ass, he'd never had reason to, either. He didn't have a hundredth of Ian's experiences, or even a tenth of his brother's. Charlie'd been tossed into an adult world way too early because of that huge brain of his, forced into school with kids so much older than him, kids who hated him, sneered at him, were jealous of him and mean because of it.

That'd built up a kind of strength, absolutely, but Charlie'd had support every step of the way -- from his mom, who left her family to go to college with her math prodigy son. From his dad, who didn't try to stifle him even when it tore the family apart. From teachers like Fleinhardt. Even Don looked out for him, despite any resentment over all the attention his baby brother got. Charlie was used to being protected. He might've struggled against it sometimes, but it'd always been there; that was what his world looked like.

Ian remembered Charlie's reaction to being shot at, that first case they worked together. It was like gravity had suddenly reversed itself -- the world wasn't supposed to _be_ like that, and the utter shock and confusion had been clear on his face; Ian had seen that even through the scope, from his perch, when he'd looked down to make sure everyone was all right after he took out the shooter. All Charlie's equations describing sniping hadn't prepared him for a bullet flying past his head.

Ian couldn't remember being like that himself. He supposed he must've been at some point, when he was a kid, maybe. But that world had vanished for him too many years ago; he couldn't get it back even in his imagination.

How much worse must this have been, an actual sexual assault as opposed to a near miss with a bullet? Something he'd experienced for hours -- and Ian felt his blood heating up with the need to go shoot that bitch after all just thinking about it -- something Charlie'd had to endure for what must've felt like forever. Something that'd be with him, playing over and over in his head for... who knew how long?

Whatever he needed, they'd get it for him. Ian wouldn't let this crush Charlie.


	10. Chapter 10

**Charlie**

When Don came back in without Ian, Charlie wanted to throw something at him, but the only throwable object within reach was a pillow, and throwing a pillow wouldn't have communicated exactly how pissed off he was. Throwing pillows was something little kids did when they were playing, and Charlie was a grown man -- even if he was feeling light-headed and kind of mellow -- who wanted to do some serious damage to a brother who was being a jerk.

"Where's Ian?" Charlie tried hard and managed to focus enough to put a hint of snarl into the question.

"He went to get some coffee," said Don. "He'll be back up in a little while." He looked over at their father and said, "Hey, Dad."

"Don." Their dad was looking at Don like he was trying to figure out what was going on, and was afraid he wasn't going to like whatever it was.

Don moved over to the other side of the bed-couch-thing -- Ian's side -- and stood looking down at Charlie, who scooted as far as he could toward the other side of the bed, because he didn't want to be looking up at Don any more than he absolutely had to. His head spun when he moved, and his body felt like it was in freefall for a few seconds.

"How you doing?" asked Don. "Did they figure out what's up with the whole drugging thing?"

"They've tried a couple of things," said Charlie.

Don gave him a sideways smile, then looked up at their dad.

"The first medication they gave him didn't work," he said. "The second doctor ordered something else and we're waiting to see whether it does anything."

"Why does he have two doctors?" asked Don, standing up straighter. "Is it that bad? What's going on?"

"A new doctor came in and took over for the old one," said their dad. "I don't know why. Maybe the first one went off shift?"

Charlie winced. He still didn't like the fact that the first doctor had made him nervous, even though he _was_ happier with the new one. "Ian had them switch," he explained. He hoped he wouldn't have to say why.

"Ian what? Why is Edgerton messing with your doctors? Who even gave him the right to do that?"

"I did!" Charlie snapped, anger flooding through him. Chemically mellow or not, Don had always been able to piss him off more than anyone else. It must be a sibling thing. "He's looking out for me, all right? The first doctor was a woman and he saw I was kind of freaking out so he fixed it!"

Don stared at him for a moment, then looked up at their dad and asked, "Did you get anything out of that?"

"He's on the good drugs." Their dad shrugged. "Charlie obviously didn't mind, though, so if you're going to be upset you can go do it somewhere else."

"It was perfectly clear," Charlie said. "You're just being a jerk because you're mad about me and Ian."

Their dad patted him on the shoulder and said, "I think maybe you should try taking a nap now. I don't think you're too far away from it, the way you're slurring your gibberish."

All right, obviously it wasn't just Don being a jerk. Charlie huffed in frustration and lay back against the pillows. He turned onto his right side, the rotation causing gravity to shift around him in a completely freaky way, but he dealt with it because it put his back to Don. He didn't want to have to talk to him or even look at him while he was being such a prick.

It turned out his dad was right -- once he closed his eyes and let himself relax, he fell into sleep pretty easily.

Some unknowable time later, Charlie woke up fighting off Marilyn and screaming because Ian was dead on the floor next to the bed where Marilyn was holding him down and fucking him. She'd shot Ian, killed him so Charlie would want her instead, but it hadn't worked and she was angry and was doing her best to make sure he was hurting but nothing she did to him could be worse than seeing Ian bleeding out on the floor--

"Charlie! Hey, it's all right, I'm right here. Wake up for me, Professor, come on...."

The hands on him turned into Ian's, warm and gentle instead of thin and slashing. Charlie blinked and squinted, fighting to get oriented.

When his vision cleared, he looked up at Ian, who was leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other brushing across his forehead. Charlie sat up and grabbed, needing more contact than just one hand and a couple of fingers.

"There you go, that's better," said Ian. "How you feeling?"

"Better now," said Charlie, his voice muffled against the side of Ian's neck. "I hate sleeping."

"It'll get better," Ian promised. Charlie wasn't sure how he could be so sure, and after thinking about it, he decided he'd rather not ask.

"How about everything else? Still hurting?"

Charlie took inventory and shook his head. "Just a little, I feel a lot better. Head's not hurting anymore, chest feels fine, everything else seems to have deflated." He managed a pained smile, and let go of Ian with one hand so he could go feeling carefully under the blanket, needing to make sure. Yes, definitely deflated. It felt tender, in a way it never had before and he hoped it never would again. He'd never been so happy _not_ to be hard before in his life, though, and the minor pain was nothing compared with his fuzzy memory of before.

"Good," said Ian. "You can tell the doctor next time he comes in to check, and with any luck they'll let you go home."

"I want my own bed," Charlie said. Because the bed-couch-thing was horribly uncomfortable, and just being in the hospital was pretty awful in general. He was pretty sure he'd be able to relax better at home.

"We'll get you there. A nurse has been checking on you every couple of hours -- she should be back in forty minutes or so. We'll tell her you're feeling better and get the ball rolling."

"What time is it?"

"About five-twenty."

"In the morning?"

"In the morning," Ian confirmed. "Your dad left a couple of hours ago, said something about shovelling out your room, making sure it was ready for you."

"What? Please tell me you're teasing." The thought of his dad even setting foot into his room, much less trying to clean, sent cold spikes of fear down Charlie's spine.

"No, sorry, that's what he said. Maybe _he_ was teasing?"

"That's not how my luck has been running lately."

Ian laughed and pulled Charlie in for a hug. "Isn't it great that the worst thing you have to worry about at this moment is whether or not your dad is going to mess things up in your room?"

"Okay, point," said Charlie. Although he wasn't sure whether that was actually something to worry about, or whether it was just something he was using to distract himself.

Charlie shifted over to make room for Ian on the bed-couch-thing. Ian adjusted it so it was bent up like a chaise rather than flat like a bed, so he could lean on the back and Charlie could lean on him. They stayed that way until the nurse came in at a little after six. She checked Charlie's vitals and said the doctor would be in to see him soon.

Hospitals had to define "soon" differently than other people, because it was almost another hour later before Dr. Patil came in through the curtain.

"Dr. Eppes," he said. "I hear you're feeling better?"

"About a thousand percent," said Charlie. "Whatever that stuff was you gave me, it did the trick."

"I'm sure that long nap you had helped too," said Dr. Patil. "I'll need to examine you one more time, and if everything looks all right, I'll let you get out of here."

"That'd be great," said Charlie. His hands tightened on Ian's, which were wrapped around Charlie's middle. The whole examining-his-dick thing was still embarrassing, but at least he was pretty sure it wouldn't hurt this time.

Dr. Patil put on his gloves, did the trick with having Charlie bend his knees again, then pushed the blanket up. Charlie looked away, feeling a blush work its way up his face. He felt the doctor's hands on him, smooth and a little tacky from the latex. It ached a bit, almost like a sunburn, but it was still just a shadow of before, which was good. After a minute or so, it was over.

"The skin shows some stress from being stretched for an extended period. It'll be fragile for a while, at least a few weeks and possibly several months. Be careful of damage, and try to minimize friction or abrasion."

"Seriously?" Charlie asked, because "friction" was one of his favorite things, especially when Ian was around.

With a perfectly straight face, Dr. Patil said, "Make sure you use plenty of lubrication. If you engage in binding or impact play, I'd suggest forgoing that until the skin is fully healed."

Charlie's blush redoubled; he wanted to bury his face in Ian's chest and never face the world -- or at least this particular doctor -- again, ever. "Not a problem," he muttered.

"Good," said Dr. Patil. He pulled the blanket back down. "You can get dressed, then, and I'll get your paperwork wrapped up so you can get out of here."

"Umm, I didn't come in with any clothes," said Charlie. "I guess I need to call my dad and have him bring an outfit?"

"We can probably find you something," said the doctor. "I'll ask. At the very least, we can get you a set of scrubs."

"That'd be great, thanks. And... thank you, really."

"You're very welcome," said Dr. Patil. "I'm glad you came through it without any permanent damage."

The doctor left, and a few minutes later, a nurse came in with a pair of scrub pants and a blue and white striped polo shirt that was a couple of sizes too big but would work to get him home. She had a pair of socks but no shoes; Charlie decided that was good enough. It wasn't like he was walking home -- socks would be fine for hospital-to-car and car-to-house.

He pulled everything on, then said, "Let's get out of here."

Charlie got up to walk out under his own power, Ian right next to him, obviously keeping watch on everyone and everything in the vicinity. Usually Charlie would've protested, or at least teased him about always being on duty. Right then he didn't mind. He was eyeing everyone himself -- doctors and nurses, patients, volunteers, random people on their way to or from visiting. He knew it was irrational to think Marilyn might be there, but his head couldn't convince his gut that it was being ridiculous.

Ian guided him out through the reception area and over to a bench up against the building. He sat. Ian stood next to him and pulled out his phone to call a cab.

"You didn't drive?" asked Charlie.

"My rental car's in the garage at the FBI building," Ian said. "I went out with the team, then rode here with you in the ambulance. I'll go pick it up after you're settled in at the house, if you're okay staying with just your dad?"

"What? Sure, no problem. I mean, I'll have to be okay with it in a couple of days, right? I'm sorry we'll miss out on our hike -- this whole thing is just so crazy, I keep thinking of all these little things that are affected, like Marilyn dropped this huge rock into the pond of my life."

Ian's squeezed Charlie's shoulder. "I'll be around for a while. I talked to my boss and got a couple of weeks off. I have plenty of time banked."

"Really? You can stay?" Charlie felt his mood improving at the thought. "What if something comes up?"

"Possible," said Ian, "but I made it clear that he's only to call me if it's a major emergency. I might be the third best sniper in the country, but there _are_ two guys better than me, and a bunch of guys who aren't quite as good but can handle taking down your average violent fugitive. We're due some good luck, so if we both hope really hard, I should have the two full weeks." He paused, then added, "And if you need more, I can probably arrange it."

"No, really, you don't have to rearrange your life for me," Charlie protested. "I don't want your boss getting mad over this. I'm sure I'll be fine. And I have Dad, right?"

"I know. I'm glad you have a strong family, and that you all take care of each other when you need it. But I still want to be here, if that's okay."

"Of course it's okay! I'm just saying, I don't want you to feel bad if something comes up. I'll manage."

"I know you will. You shouldn't have to, though."

Charlie leaned against Ian, resting his head against his hip while he called for a cab. They just hung out, enjoying the crisp morning, being outside with nothing pressing and a cool breeze blowing... well, all right, across the parking lot, and maybe it wasn't the same as a fresh breeze coming off a lake or across a park or something, but it was better than being in the hospital, and definitely better than being in a stuffy motel room with a crazy woman--

No, he didn't want to think about that. Charlie closed his eyes and leaned harder into Ian, focusing on the denim under his cheek, the solid body under the jeans. Here, Ian, safe.

Ian brushed one hand lightly through Charlie's hair, then down to his shoulder. He let it lay there, massaging lightly. They didn't talk, didn't feel any need to fill the silence. Just being together was enough for Charlie, and Ian seemed to think the same.

Everything was fine until a woman came out of the ER, talking on the phone. Her voice had the same timbre as Marilyn's, she was teasing whoever was on the other end, and that flirty female voice gripped Charlie in the pit of his stomach. His gut clenched, his heart slammed in his chest, and he was suddenly gasping for air.

Charlie grabbed at Ian with both hands, needing contact, needing to hide, needing to hang on to something solid because otherwise he was going to get up and run and he had just enough of his rational mind left to know that running would be stupid and dashing off in a panic could even get him hit by a car, but the rest of his brain was screaming DANGER! and he couldn't make it shut up or let go--

"Easy, Professor, it's okay, I'm here, it's all right, you're safe, come on...." And Ian was right there, next to him on the bench, arms around him, pulling him close, rubbing his back. Charlie buried his face in Ian's shoulder, needing the security and hating himself for it at the same time, because seriously, this was stupid but he couldn't _help_ it.

When the cab pulled up, Ian said, "You okay?"

Charlie said, "Yeah."

They both knew he was lying, but it was the truth, too, in that he was doing the best he could. It was also truth if you considered wellness as a scale -- from Bad to Okay to Good to Great. Saying Charlie was "okay" on that scale was pretty accurate.

And it wasn't too bad. He was free, and in one piece, and Ian was taking him home. It was a good starting point on the way to "okay," which was all he could manage right then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap to the first story. :)
> 
> There's definitely another story coming; it picks up pretty much right after the end of this chapter. It's going to be longer -- I'm about 37K words in and estimate that it'll go another 10-15K. Note that I suck at guessing ahead of time how long something's going to be. When I started _A Lost Boy,_ my longest fic to date at about 90K words, I estimated it'd be about 10-12K. So.
> 
> I have some vague ideas for a third story, but no promises at this point. I really love Charlie-and-Ian, though, and there aren't nearly enough fics about them, so I'll contribute as long as the muses hang around.
> 
> Sometimes the muses lock themselves in a closet in the middle of a story, though. They usually come out at some point, but I really hate having to put a fic on hiatus while I wait for them, so I won't start posting the second story until it's finished. That's why I made this a series from the beginning, so if you enjoyed this story and want to read the next one, you can subscribe to the series and get an e-mail when I start posting again.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading along, and a particular thanks to everyone who's commented. I love talking about my stories and the characters and writing, so if you have a comment or a question or just want to chat, please feel free.
> 
> [wave]
> 
> Angie


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